We all can't keep secrets
by closetfan
Summary: COMPLETE! A fanfic co-authored with MacBeth2001. What happens when someone decides to take matters into their own hands to keep Spidey's identity a secret. Chapter 9 up. please R
1. The secret's out

At four AM, the only light emanating in the room flickered from the TV. Joe Schlechenger sat forward on the ragged sofa, elbows on his knees, a cigarette and a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and Rolling Rock beer in the other. He took a swig of the whiskey, a gulp of beer and a puff on the cig in that order. He really wasn't watching the infomercial on the boob tube.

Ever since the train incident, he had been out of a job. His boss didn't care if the train almost plummeted off the tracks and took hours to vacate it. It was just another excuse for being late and he was fired. And he hadn't been able to find another job since. It hadn't helped that he's having trouble laying off the booze, either.

Joe looked around at his decrepit one room apartment trying to figure out a way to make some money. He was seriously toying with breaking the law to do it. But every time he started planning something, his eyes drifted to the discarded newspaper in the corner with the picture of Spiderman on it. He knew that he couldn't pull off any robbery as long as that superhero was around. He wondered did Spiderman also go into New Jersey? Maybe he could pull a job in Newark or Irvington then flee back into NY. He sunk deeper into despair. It would take a lot of work to case a joint outside his home town, and the risks were too high.

He continued glaring at the paper. Although the Bugle was ruthless with Spiderman, Joe knew better. He was after all on that train that Spiderman stopped from flying off the tracks. Saw his face even. Suddenly Joe straightened up, his face brightened. What about selling his story?

In his drunken stupor and desperation for money, he made a decision. He called the Bugle right then and there. Since newspapers start humming at the wee hours of the morning, he connected with someone right away.

"Hey, I got a story for you," Joe slurred. "I know what Spiderman looks like. Saw his face when he fought Doc Ock a couple months ago." There was a pause as Joe listened to the recipient of the call. He answered, "Right now? Sure. I'll be right down."

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The bright sunlight poured into the office that Joe was ushered into just minutes ago. He had been talking to a reporter for a couple of hours now. Although he had not heard anything about a monetary reward yet, the reporter seemed very excited and the two of them now sat in the office of some schmuck named Jamison.

"What's this I hear?! We have a picture of Spiderman unmasked?!" bellowed a gray-haired man as he blasted through the office door.

"Uh, not quite, JJ, but we have the next best thing," the reporter stammered.

"That's MR. JAMISON to you, and what do you mean, the next best thing?"

Joe noticed that the guy seemed to talk in a constant shout all the time, as if it were the most normal thing.

"This guy here," as the reporter pointed to Joe, "saw Spiderman's face."

Joe felt like melting when Mr. J.J. Jamison glared down at him. Having sobered up the past several hours, he started to regret his decision. Spiderman didn't do anything to him, actually he saved his life and here he was about to ruin Spidey's life. The life of someone who helped this city all the time. Suddenly in flashes he was starting to think of what might happen if in fact Spiderman was revealed. He thought of robberies, muggings, the burning or collapsed buildings that would not have the Webslinger around to help. What would happen if he, himself got into trouble? This is after all New York City. Hell, he could get mugged just walking out of this building today. He was snapped out of his thought when JJ bellowed, "Get a sketch artist in here, now!"

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Peter walked up to the secretary's desk, "Hi, Betty."

"Hey, Pete," she smiled up at him.

He was brushed lightly by someone rushing into Jamison's office. As Peter peered through the glass walls, he noticed Bob, a hard working junior reporter sitting next to a disheveled man who appeared to be cowering under Jamison's yelling. The brush he felt was the Bugle's portrait artist rushing into the office.

"What's up in there?"

Betty looked into the office, "That bum there says he knows what Spiderman looks like."

Betty didn't see Pete turn ghost white. But when Jamison noticed Peter standing outside he barked for him to come into the office.

"Parker, didn't you say you were on that train that almost took a nosedive into the trainyard?" the editor yelled as Peter entered the office.

Joe turned around to see the latest addition to the office décor and his draw dropped. "That's him," he thought, being careful to close his mouth and not look surprised.

Peter gave him a glancing look, not recognizing him then turned his attention back to his boss. "Uh, yes Mr. Jamison, I was there. Why?"

"Why didn't you get a picture of Spiderman with his mask off?!"

"Well, first off, I told you Mr. Jamison, the camera and film inside were destroyed when the strap broke and it fell in the trainyard as I tried to get off the train. But even if they weren't, I didn't see Spiderman with his mask off." Peter explained, anxiety building up inside him.

JJ glowered at the sketch artist and the bum who were busy watching Peter. "Hey!" he barked, "get started on that drawing."

Peter fought the fear building inside of him. He knew he had lost his mask for a while aboard that train. And he knew many people saw him. But unfortunately, he remembered few of the faces. All he remembered were an elderly black gentleman, a young lady with a baby and two young kids. The ones who gave him back his mask. He didn't recognize this guy sitting in front of him. He began to feel a tingle crawl up his spine as the guy kept looking over at him like he was being sized up.

Joe found he couldn't concentrate on the artist; his eyes were glued to Peter. Just as he remembered him, very young and vulnerable. He looked at the young man, fear shadowing his eyes as he continued to give a narrative description to the artist. "No, his eyes were a little larger. Yeah, his chin looks right. No, change that right here, a little more narrow. Yeah, yeah, that looks good," Joe said as he studied the artist rendition. The artist handed the drawing to JJ.

Jamison held up the artwork, "HA! I thought that's what he'd look like." Then he stared at it harder, studied it and looked at the bum.

"What is this shit?"

Joe defended himself, "that's who I saw, it ain't no shit."

In a couple of decibels higher than usual Jamison yelled, "This looks like Parker!"

Joe looked over at Peter, shame flickered for but a nanosecond then he said as he pointed to the young man, "That is Spiderman. I got a close look at him. I know that's him."

Everyone's attention fell to a silent Peter. He didn't know what to say. But he was trying his hardest to not look as panic stricken as he felt. That would be a dead give-a-way.

"I-I-I don't know what he's talking about Mr. Jamison," Peter stammered. "I'm just a science geek. I trip just getting out of bed in the morning." Then in a flash of genius he pulled out his coke bottle glasses, "Does Spiderman look like he needs these?" hoping that they all remembered he wore glasses.

"He could wear contacts like you, Parker." Jamison said.

"With all those super spider powers, which probably includes eyesight, why would he even need contacts?" Peter said trying not to sound anxious. "And besides, I was on that train, too. Maybe this guy saw me and is getting me mixed up with Spiderman. No one else has come forward saying they saw his face, have they?"

Peter's argument was growing stronger in JJ's eyes. In his own train of thought, he added, "And why did you wait so long to tell us?"

The reporter realizing that it was probably better to cut his losses now than later abandoned ship and stated, "You were drunk when you came in here, are you sure you weren't just dreaming?"

Jamison saw Joe starting to squirm and came to his own conclusion, "What proof do you have that you weren't drunk on the train and mistook Parker here for that webheaded menace?"

"But I wasn't drunk then. I swear. And no one else came forward because they all made a pact to keep his secret. That's him, I tell ya. He's Spiderman" Joe said defensively. But he already knew that he had lost. They weren't going to believe a down on his luck, soon-to-be homeless man with the smell of liquor on his breath.

Turning his attention to his almost ex-junior reporter, JJ bellowed, "Get this greedy, lying bum out of here and make sure you get your facts straight before coming in here with wild stories like that."

As Joe was being ushered out, he brushed past Peter and whispered, "I know it was you, I saw you."

Peter stared after the man as he was led to the elevators. Jonah broke Pete's concentration, "Parker! Why don't you go out and get a picture of Spiderman unmasked and save me from lunatics like that!"

Peter just nodded and left. He was not one that ever felt the need to have a drink. Except now.


	2. One down

**HOAX UNCOVERED!**

A pair of gloved hands reached out to pick up that day's Daily Bugle as the headlines sat over another picture of Spiderman. The story read:

_Editor-in-Chief J. Jonah Jamison, using uncanny journalistic detective work, uncovered a hoax today. A homeless man only known as Joe was trying to convince reporters that he saw the face of Spiderman. According to the bum, during that infamous train incident where Spiderman stopped the train from going off the end of the track plummeting to the train yard below, a problem which he originally caused, he had lost his mask and was seen by all. _

_As the man was sitting in the office, next to one of our staff, Peter Parker, he was giving the Spiderman description to the artist. Apparently he was staring at Parker giving the artist a detailed description of the photographer he was looking at. _

_Claiming that it was indeed Parker who was Spiderman, the truth unfolded that the man was drunk while on the train and remembered seeing our photographer, who was also on the train at that time. At this point in time, there is no proof that Spiderman's identity was ever revealed._

The paper was crumpled and was about to be slammed into the trash when there were second thoughts. Although there were no pictures of this Joe fellow, the figure decided to save it. It might useful in finding out who he was. Maybe Spiderman could be repaid for saving all those lives after all.

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Peter was heading back to the Bugle with a new batch of photos. At least Jamison has shown some willingness to accept a few more photos from Pete that were not of Spiderman. The shots still contained sensationalism, like the one that was of a mounted policeman getting dragged off his horse by an overly enthusiastic crowd of Rangers fan after they won the Stanley cup. But at least it wasn't of Spiderman.

He was looking down fumbling with his photos, making sure they were ready to give to the Editor, when he was yanked off balance and into the alleyway. He was about to use his superpowers to defend himself when he realized it was just a drunk and angry bum. He toned down his power to normal human strength and just broke free of the hold. Before Peter could ask him what he wanted, the man screamed, "I know you're Spiderman. I saw your face. Oh you were on that train alright, but not as a photographer."

Peter didn't know what to do. He wanted the drunk to quiet down, but he didn't want to hit him or be aggressive towards him in any way. Holding up his hands, he spoke quietly, "Hey, calm down buddy. I'm not Spiderman, really. I wish I were, he's one cool dude, gets all the girls ga-ga over him. But I'm just a college geek."

"Liar!" he yelled back. "I just lost my home because of you." The drunkard took a swing at Peter who needed no super Spider powers to duck. The punch's momentum took Joe in a complete circle, entwining his legs. He collapsed in a heap. He stayed in a pile on the filthy ground, weeping softly.

"Here, let me help you," Peter offered as he held out his hand. Joe pulled back defiantly at first, then relented and allowed Pete to help him stand up.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked the now homeless man. "I thought Spiderman saved your life on that train. Why are you trying to destroy him?"

"I need the money. I got fired because of that damned train accident. If Spiderman wasn't fighting with that Ock fella, the train never would have been in the condition to need help from Spiderman. The train woulda stopped at the station. I woulda gotten off and walked to work. I woulda been on time. So the least I can do is get some money for my troubles"

"You got fired for that?" Peter asked incredulously.

"Yeah, well, I've had trouble being late before." Joe said solemnly. "I was on probation, but I was doing real good. I hadn't been late in weeks," he yelled.

Peter, now feeling guilty, because it was his fight with Doc Ock that caused the train incident, wanted to help Joe. He thought for a moment. He wasn't about to agree that he was indeed the Webslinger, but he had to do something. "Uh, Joe, can you deliver pizza?"

The slightly older man nodded .

"Well, I just happen to know of a job opening a couple blocks away."

"Ya do? How?"

"I just got fired from there for lateness," Peter said, blushing and grinning at the same time.

After he got the specifics of the job, Joe just stared at Peter. He wanted to still yell at him that he does know that he's Spiderman, but then at the same time, this kid just pointed him to the solution to his problem, which was lack of money. He just hung his head and shuffled out of the alley.

Peter looked at the time, "Gosh, I'm late. AGAIN"

He ran into JJ's office and was hit with, "You're late. Where were you?"

"Joe stopped me..."

"Joe who?" bellowed Jamison.

Dropping down to Jonah's level of discussion he said, "The bum who said he saw Spiderman's face grabbed me outside in the alleyway. He was drunk. I just talked him down a bit and offered a place where he could find employment."

"Well one of his buddies was up here looking for him. Asked where he could find him."

Peter looked surprise, "Really, who was it? What did you do?"

"Don't know, so I told him to beat it. But you're still late. You're fired!"

Peter, used to being fired everyday now, just sat down, "So I guess you don't want to see pictures of a post gang war bloodbath?" He just about spat that out. He absolutely hated this part of the job. But, this was how he paid the rent. Spiderman didn't make it there in time to stop the fight and all the mobile gangmembers had split. Paramedics were already arriving to care for the injured so Spidey's help was no longer needed. Pete decided that he could play photographer this time. How he wished Jamison would run some nicer articles with pictures of old ladies feeding the birds or little kids playing with puppies.

"You're unfired, whatcha got?" Jamison yelled.

Pete handed him the folder.

Jonah shuffled through the photographs, "Crap. Crap. Crap. I'll give you $200."

"Mr. Jamison, you know the going rate is $350." Peter said sternly, having gotten used to playing the game now.

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As Peter was heading for class, the headlines of the Bugle at a nearby newsstand caught his eye.

**HOAX INSTIGATOR MURDERED**

**WEBBED MENACE IMPLICATED**

Pete was stunned. He was just talking to the guy the other day. He grabbed the paper and read the story. Apparently the man was found dead wearing a pizza delivery jacket and hat. He had been stabbed in the back. The police said there were no eye witnesses and no motive but they weren't ruling out robbery. Even though he still had his pizza money, the police think the perpetrator was scared off before he could grab the money and run. Peter saw that it was JJ that had put the Spiderman spin on it. No wonder so many people hated him.

"You gonna pay for that?"

Startled back to reality, Peter looked at the newsman, "Uh, sorry." And he put the paper back being cash strapped. He sulked as he continued to class. A storm cloud following him. He had no doubt that Joe was one of the passengers who saw his face. And he was feeling pretty good that he was able to help him out. But now to find out he was killed...he was sure he could have helped him again if only he was in the neighborhood. He felt a twang of guilt. He always did when there was someone he didn't save for one reason or another.


	3. The Note

It was a sunny afternoon on a day fairly free of crime, relatively speaking, as Spider-man swung across the cityscape of New York. Any onlooker quick enough to notice him would think that he didn't have a care in the world. Under the mask, however, Peter Parker was anything but carefree. He knew the city like the back of his hand, but this part he knew particularly well. Ahead, the offices of the Daily Bugle loomed.

He changed clothes in a shadowy area on the building's roof, then ran down the stairwell toward the inevitable showdown with J. Jonah Jameson. He had even fewer pictures to offer than the day before, but money was so tight for him and Aunt May that he had to try his luck on an almost daily basis. At least he always had shots of Spider-man.

Peter sighed as he entered the Bugle's offices. Someone had beaten him to the punch. A shabbily dressed man was already hounding Jameson's secretary, Betty, demanding to see him. Peter flopped into a nearby chair and stared at the clock, hoping the wait wouldn't be long.

"You need to tell Mr. Jameson that I have important information," the man insisted. At that moment, the cigar-chomping publisher himself stormed out of his office, briskly looking over copy with Joe "Robbie" Robertson close on his heals. The man at Betty's desk ignored her shouts of protest and marched straight up to Jameson.

"Look, I am tired of getting the runaround from your secretary," he said. Jonah spared him only a glance before returning his eyes to the copy.

"Oh, it's you again," he said dismissively. "If you're back looking for your friend Joe, he's dead. Don't you people read the papers? Or do you just sleep under them?"

"He's not… he wasn't my friend," the man explained. "I found his body, and I know something that the police aren't telling the press." Jameson instantly shoved the papers he held into the arms of a passing intern. With a smile as large as it was fake, he threw his own arm around the man's shoulders, ushering him back toward his office.

"You don't say?" Jameson asked, beaming. He closed the door behind Robbie, the man, and himself, then reflexively shook off the arm that had been touching the man.

Peter watched as the blinds on the office windows were shut. He slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair in frustration. He'd heard everything, from the moment the name "Joe" caught his attention. His guilt over Joe's death demanded that he find out what the stranger in Jonah's office knew. Consequently, he was most definitely going to be late for lunch with Aunt May. As inconspicuously as possible, he had to bend the metal chair's arm back into shape.

"So whatcha got?" asked Jameson. He leaned back in his chair and took a big puff of his cigar. He could tell the man in front of him was no dirt-stupid bum, but he was also sure he had the upper hand in any negotiation.

"Okay, here's my story," came the reply. "My name is Leonard Rosenbaum. I was the Super for Joe's apartment building, before he got kicked out. He had some stuff--"

"Joe had stuff," Jameson interrupts. "That's great. Can we get to the point?"

"You remember I was here looking for him the other day?" Leonard continued. "Well, I didn't get any help here, but I managed to track him down at his new job. He'd just headed out on a delivery, and the pizza-shop guy told me about where to look for him. I guess he didn't care if I was a mugger or what. So I found the body, right? And the cops aren't telling anyone this… but there was a note on the body."

Jameson and Rosenbaum stared at each other for a while in silence. Jonah was beginning to feel the strain of maintaining the fake smile, while Leonard just raised his eyebrows and nodded emphatically. In another second, the smile was gone.

"So what did it say?" Jonah yelled furiously. Rosenbaum was momentarily stunned by the sudden outburst, but soon recovered.

"One thousand dollars, and the exclusive is all yours," Leonard said.

"I thought I smelled something," Jameson muttered vaguely. "Look, pal, I don't know what you came here expecting… but all you're leaving with is the good feeling you get, knowing that you've satisfied the public's right to know. That, and maybe a free trial subscription."

"Well, then I'll have to go elsewhere," Leonard retorts. "It's a shame… the note seems to me to imply a direct connection to Spider-man. But I'm not the expert that you are." With frustration, Jameson felt his upper hand begin to slip. As it happened, Robbie felt it too.

"How do we even know if this guy is legit, JJ?" he asked pointedly.

"Good question," Jameson answered. "Another would be: "Do I care?". Okay, Rosencrantz, you drive a hard bargain…. How about fifty bucks, and a free trial subscription?"

"I'm sorry, you're going to have to do better," Leonard said firmly. Jameson just rolled his eyes. If some building Super was too dumb to take a free fifty bucks for making up a printable headline so that he didn't have to, too bad.

"Okay, I'm not wasting anymore of my time on this," he snapped. "I'm sorry we couldn't come to an understanding. But after every other paper in town has thrown you out on your ear, feel free to come on back. The subscription offer still stands. Trial subscription." No sooner had Jonah shooed Leonard from his office than he turned to Robbie as if Leonard was no longer there. "I mean, how do we even know if that guy was legit…? So… what's next, Robbie?"

"Well, actually, we've got another one of those people from the train coming up here to give a statement any minute now."

"You do?" Leonard asked, overhearing. "Well… they won't know about the note."

"Didn't I just say I was done with you?" Jameson threw back at him. Leonard was about to say more, but the gruff publisher just waved condescendingly. "Bye-bye!"

With an angry sigh, Leonard marched out of the Bugle's offices. Betty watched him go, and then called out the name of the next scheduled appointment. She looked around for anyone to answer, but no one did. Then she remembered the photographer whom she'd seen come in earlier.

"Oh, Peter!" Betty said. "Mr. Jameson is free for a moment if you…. Peter?" But the young man was gone.

"Hey!" Peter called. "Hey, mister, wait!" He was running down the hall toward the elevators, as Leonard was about to board one. Peter managed to edge in behind him as the antiquated doors threatened to crush him. Leonard just stood watching.

"What do you want?" he asked suspiciously. Peter's head was spinning, wondering how to broach the subject. He decided to stick as close to the truth as possible, but he still hated how good a liar he was becoming, thanks to Spider-man.

"Look, I'm the one who helped Joe get that pizza job," Peter admitted. "I saw him in here the other day, and I wanted to help him out. I feel really bad about what happened. Please… can you tell me about this note you were talking about?"

"I'm sorry," Leonard said. "Jameson wouldn't pay, but somebody will. Hey listen, I feel bad about Joe, too. He seemed like a decent guy. I'm not doing this just for the money; I really think the public should be informed. Things are just tough, financially, you know? So… don't be too hard on yourself. Take care, okay?"

Peter didn't know where to go from there. He stood dumbstruck, until the elevator bell rang and the doors opened onto the ground floor. The lobby was crowded with people coming and going during the lunchtime rush. Peter tried to follow Leonard out through the bustling throng of commuters, but he was immediately hit by a sharp stab from his spider-sense.

Scanning the crowd, Peter's attention was drawn to a middle-aged black man at the information desk. The man was staring intently at him, with a searching look in his eyes. Then, his eyes grew wide for a moment, and he smiled a small smile at Peter before deliberately turning away. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Peter continued to the building's exit. Searching up and down the street outside, he could find no sign of Leonard. He then turned back around, feeling very reluctant to return inside.

The look the man at the desk had given him was undoubtedly one of recognition. But Peter had never seen the man before. He'd heard Robbie saying that another person from the train was coming to interview today. The man's friendly smile was only barely reassuring. He couldn't help but wonder how many more people had seen his face, and how many of them might be like Joe.

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"Hold the elevator, please!" someone shouted. George Anderson stuck his hand out just in time to let the newcomer squeeze on. George smiled at his new companion, who returned the smile graciously.

"What floor?"

"Oh… the one with the Daily Bugle offices," George said absently. "Darn it, the girl at the desk just told me which one…"

"It's okay, I know it." The button was pressed, and the elevator took its two passengers upward. George had the uncomfortable feeling he was being stared at. He tried to smile again, but this time it wasn't returned. Finally, the stranger spoke. "I remember you… from the train that Spider-man saved."

"Yeah, that's right," George replied. "Were you there, too?" His companion just smiled, apparently recalling the memory with fondness. George relaxed at this. "Boy that was something, huh? I'm here to tell the Bugle all about it."

"You probably got a better look at Spider-man's face than that "Joe" person," the stranger added, laughingly slightly. The elevator doors opened, and George let his fellow passenger lead the way.

"I read about him," George said, trying to remember. "Drunk-ass fool got himself killed the next day. The paper said Spider-man did it, I think. They're always blaming him for something. Yeah, I'll never forget that boy's face. I'll never forget anything about that day. I almost died."

"A lot of people almost died."

"And that's why I'm here," said George, grinning. "I told that Robertson fellow on the phone, I don't want to talk about what Spider-man looks like. I want to set the record straight about him, let everyone know what a hero he really is!"

"I wish I could trust you," George's companion said sadly. As they'd walked, George had noticed the sound of the newsroom growing fainter, not louder. He looked around, finding only stairwell access and a janitor's closet.

"Are the Bugle offices this way?" he asked.

"No," was the reply.

George didn't see the knife until it was too late.

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"Parker!" he heard a voice shout. Peter turned to see one of the Bugle's staff rushing toward him. It was a nerdy-looking man, a little older than himself, in a dark suit with thick glasses. Peter thought the man's name was "Ted" or something like that. Working for Jameson normally made people frantic, but "Ted" was registering off the scale. "Have you got your camera with you?"

Peter cursed the time he'd spent sitting on the curb. The weight of his mounting problems had forced him to just sit and collect himself for a time. Time enough, it seemed, for another problem to arise. Peter finally nodded in answer to the question that could have easily answered itself if "Ted" had noticed the conspicuously camera-shaped case he was carrying. Then he allowed himself to be dragged swiftly back into the building.

"Parker!" Jameson exclaimed, wrenching him from the elevator. The entire ride up, "Ted" had been sweating furiously and appeared to be on the edge of vomiting. Still, Peter wasn't sure how glad he was to be in Jonah's sweaty grip.

"One side, move it!" Jameson commanded as they went. Building security personnel did as he said, rather than face his wrath. They weren't paid enough for that. Peter wondered briefly why so many of them were gathered up here. He got his answer as Jameson ground to a halt in front of an open janitor's closet. "Don't just stand there gaping, Parker! Take a picture!"

Peter swallowed hard, and shakily freed his camera from its case. In front of him lay the black man from the lobby, covered in blood from multiple stab wounds. He tried to steady his hands and focus the lens. Someone had stuffed the man in this closet like garbage. The shutter clicked again and again.

It wasn't the gruesomeness of the scene, or even the identity of the victim, that bothered Peter the most. He'd seen plenty of blood before, and had carried home the corpse of his best friend's father. No, what made Peter's own blood run cold was the note. It was pinned carefully to the man's sleeve, where none of the gore would mar it. The letters of its words were cut from the Bugle itself, rearranged in a new order.

"Keep the secret, or pay the price," it read.


	4. Who's next?

Who's Next

Spider-man sat on the same ugly gargoyle as he did the night his beloved uncle died. His arms were resting on his knees, his head on his forearms. Even the sirens blaring below could not bring him out of his despair. He heaved a deep sigh and felt a tear roll down the side of his nose in the small space between his skin and mask.

The front page of the Bugle said it all:

**SPIDER-MAN MURDERS TO KEEP IDENTITY SECRET.**

Because of some fanatic's misguided misconception, people were being assassinated. And Spider-man knew he was directly responsible. He sat there; numb. He created a secret identity to keep others safe. He used his special powers to save people's lives. No one was supposed to die just because of who he was. It just wasn't supposed to be like that.

He willed his mind to work on solving the problem, but it kept going back to the picture of George, bloody and lifeless. Once the newspaper came out with the connection between Joe and George, Pete tried desperately to remember the other faces on the train. It was then that he recalled George. He was the quiet, unassuming gentleman that tried to comfort him. He told him that everything would be alright. When Spidey made that direct connection between the dead man and the gentleman, he threw his head back and howled, "Nooooooo!"

Only winged creatures of the night heard his anguish cry.

At one point, he tried to convince himself that it was just coincidence, but two people from the same train who were in contact with the Bugle was just too much to be a fluke. So for the past several hours, he had been trying to figure out how to get a list of all those people, and try to protect them somehow. But he didn't know who any of them were, and even if he did, they lived scattered all over the city, how could he protect them all?

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Lisa sat stunned, staring down at the blaring headlines. The single young brunette must have read that article three times hoping that she had misread it. He couldn't have done it. Not Spider-man. Why would he risk his own life to save all those people on the train, then murder them later just to save his identity. Especially when many of them including her stepped in daring Doc Ock to go through them to get to him. She subconsciously rubbed her arm where she was mashed up against the side of the train when the villain grabbed Spider-man.

As she pushed her glasses up her nose, she kept trying to convince herself it was all a lie, that no way could he be the murderer. Maybe it was just a coincidence that those two men were on the train and the real link was the fact they were at the Bugle. She knew then what she needed to do. She needed to prove that Spider-man was innocent. Proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. She quickly popped off the couch and started to rummage through the top drawer of her dresser. _It's in here somewhere, I know it is. I wanted to put it someplace safe_ she thought to herself She stopped suddenly, hand buried in lingerie. _No, I decided that this was not the safe place for it._ She frantically started to look around. _Where is my safe place? I forgot where I put it._ Her eyes settled on the closet and relief flooded her body. She opened the door and dove into a pile of shoes.

She was never neat about her footwear; she usually just took them off and tossed them into the closet. About once every 5 years she would clean up the mess, organize the shoes and then proceed to trash the place starting the very next day. She knew her penchant for sloppiness, and deduced that no one would ever try to rummage through that mountain of mess, especially with its odiferous samples of riding boots, old sneakers, and well worn hiking shoes. She immediately aimed for the far right corner and tossed off flats, boots, fancy dress shoes, sandals, running shoes and two pairs of slippers before finding the shoe box. Sitting amongst the clutter, she slid her glasses up her nose again, opened the lid and peered in at the lone piece of paper.

On that list were the names, addresses and phone numbers of 11 people. Of all the passengers on the train that day, about a third of them exchanged personal information. She could put a face to each of the names on that list and a lone tear streamed down her cheek when her eyes focused on George's name. She held tight onto the directory of people as if to drop it would break it. As if to be careless with it would mean that it could fall into the wrong hands. Then her face lit up! That's it! It has to be, someone got hold of one of the lists. She refused to believe it would be one of the listees. She was sure it had to be someone else. Probably a reporter. Who else could get hold of something like this? And it fits with the connection to the Bugle. She looked back down at the piece of paper and studied the names and her eyes settled on someone named Chris. She had actually sat next to him that day and had chatted a bit.

She got up off the closet floor and headed for the phone. Picking up the receiver she hesitated, placed it back in its cradle, then after another moment, picked it back up. Before she could chicken out she quickly dialed his number.

"Hello?" she heard

"Ummm." She paused. "Uh, is Chris there?"

"Speaking"

"Chris, I, uh, don't know if you remember me or not, my name is Lisa Starchworth. I was on…"

"Oh hi Lisa. Sure I remember you. I don't think I will ever forget that day. What can I do for you?"

"Chris, have you read the Bugle lately?"

"No, actually, I usually stick to the Wall Street Journal. Besides ever since that day, reading the Bugle just pisses me off every time they trash Spider-man. Why?"

Lisa wavered. It was hard to say the words. "Two people who saw Spider-man's face from the train have been murdered. They say Spider-man's doing it."

"You're joking, right?"

There was a moment of silence, then Chris continued, "You're not joking are you?"

"No. I called, I guess, because I needed to talk to someone about it. But it has to be someone who, you know…'**knows'**. Can we meet?"

"Hmmmm, my time's kinda tight right now, I leave for Europe tomorrow. But I do want to discuss this with you. Well, do you still take the same commuter train? The 4:35? Can we meet in the first car again like we did that day?" Chris offered.

"Actually, I'm not a commuter, I was just on the train that one time. But I will still meet you there today."

"Good, see you later then." Chris confirmed, and hung up.

Lisa held the handset of the phone for a while before placing it back in the cradle. She sure hoped she was doing the right thing. One thing for sure, she wasn't going anywhere near the Bugle until the murderer was found.

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The gentle rocking effect of the train was helping to quiet Lisa's nerves. She had a few stops before Chris got on, and she was able to take the same seat she shared with him months earlier. At most of the stops, she looked up at the people piling into the car. She wondered if they were on this car that fateful day. No one from her list was there but there were about 20 other people from that day that didn't share their personal information. The thought that the murderer might be in the car never crossed her mind.

At the stop before Chris', a lone person entered the train car and headed towards one of the few remaining empty seats. Sitting down, the stranger eyed a woman sitting across the aisle. She was hogging a double seat. In a crowded train like this it was always frowned upon to take two empty seats but she didn't seemed to care. The stranger watched as the woman gave a quick glance over then subconsciously pushed her glasses up her nose.

At Chris' stop, Lisa's anxiety increased as throngs of people packed into the train car like cattle and she couldn't see him.

"Lisa?"

Startled, she looked up into a strange face. But as she studied it, the old familiar features started to form from the short hair and new goatee Chris now sported. He took his seat beside her when her face warmed up and smiled in recognition.

"Sorry, I should have warned you that I look a little different," he said as he threaded his fingers through his now short hair. He thought back to that day, he was actually on his way to get a haircut after work when the battle between the two superpowers ensued. He was one of the people right at the front of the train, and watched in both horror and amazement as the train rocketed to certain demise with Spider-man using every ounce of strength he had to prevent it. A small smile crossed his face as he remembered that it was he who first prevented the young hero from plummeting to his own death after the train stopped.

He quickly snapped out of his daydream and pulled out two different copies of the Bugle, "I got hold of both of them and read the stories you referred to. I didn't remember Joe, but remembered George. We had chatted on several occasions, as he was a regular. So, what're your thoughts on it?"

Lisa leaned in a little closer. For some reason she felt compelled to speak very softly for fear of being overheard.

"I know this is a setup. It has to be. I know it," she looked around quickly, "you-know-who couldn't have murdered anyone. I'm thinking that Joe went to the Bugle ready to spill the beans and maybe he had a copy of our list. Or maybe he got his own list from several people. Anyway, I think it is someone working at the newspaper who's offing the train passengers. Whoever it is knew Joe was trying to sell his story, and did him in, then maybe invited George to tell his story, or maybe when George gave his name, the killer recognized the name from the list that Joe had, or maybe Joe fingered George, or, oh, I don't know. But I think it is too much of a coincidence that both men were also at the Bugle."

Chris absorbed what Lisa said and agreed. "Well, listen, I'm going to be away for a few days, but when I come back, let's meet again, maybe pull in a few more people and start to organize a real investigation. This is our chance to help the man who saved our lives."

A train passenger kept an inconspicuous eye and sharp ear open for any signs of betrayal in the car. The stranger took guarding the secret very seriously and was always alert for traitors. Without his identity, Spider-man could no longer protect the city and its millions of inhabitants. While a little regret started to creep in at the lives lost to protect the superhero, the self proclaimed sentinel almost missed the gentleman who had sat down across the aisle. Apparently he was why the brunette was hogging the seat. He had pulled out two copies of the Bugle both with the murders splattered across the front page. The killer probably won't have noticed the papers if it was just one Bugle edition, but he had both of them, which were dated several days apart and the man kept referring to them while speaking with the bespectacled woman. Very few words could be heard over the constant hum of a crowded moving train, but enough important ones were picked out. As the train stopped, the decision had been made once again to protect Spider-man's identity.

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Pete decided that the best way to try to find possible future victims was to go to the scene of the original incident. He hoped against hope that he would recognize someone. As he clung to the side of a building in the shadows of the main stop, he saw the train approaching from down the tracks. The first face he saw was the engineer. Spidey realized then that he had gotten a good look at him that day, even though this person was not the same man. He made a mental note to act like a reporter and find out who the engineer was that day. When the train stopped, the doors slid open. Just like racehorses breaking from the gate, the commuters unloaded. He tried to scan as many people as he could, praying that maybe he would recognize a face. When his eyes fell upon a couple leaving the first car, his spider sense started tingling.

Spider-man slithered up the wall, remaining in the shadows but positioning himself so that he could follow the couple. He cussed softly under his mask when they parted because he didn't know which one to follow. He opted to follow the woman thinking that she might make the easier target for the assassin. She did not follow the crowd into the huge station but went directly to the pedestrian bridge that would bring her to the other side of the tracks. She looked like she was going to get right back on a train to head in the direction she just came from. He looked around; there was no way for him to swing across the tracks unnoticed. He decided to stay hidden for the moment to see if the killer would show.

The super-hero was yanked from his concentration when someone screamed, "Its Spider-man!" He could tell instantly from the stress in the voice that it wasn't yelled in awe, but in fear. He regretted getting caught and he looked to see fear in the face of the young woman with the glasses as she turned and left the platform. He also realized that the killer most probably had fled too.

Lisa's heart skipped a beat when she saw Spider-man up on the wall of the station. Even though she had convinced herself that he wasn't the murderer, the sight of him there just staring at her caused her to panic at that moment. After hailing a taxi home, she kicked herself for behaving like that. It was her one chance to show the hero that she didn't believe the newspapers. Now he probably feels that everyone fears him. But, why was he there hiding in the shadows? She wondered.

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The couple was followed from the train. When they split up, the woman went in the direction of a bridge that was very much out in the open, not a good area to silence anyone. But the man followed the crowd into the station. Maybe he would head towards the garage or some other more desolate place. Chris was shadowed without knowing he was in imminent danger. As the throng of people approached the escalators, the murderer noticed that the executive was going to walk right in front of one of the mobile stairs stilled for repairs. Although a knife was the preferred method, this opportunity could not be passed up. A well place foot and a quick but powerful nudge sent Chris flying down the broken escalator. The killer disappeared as the screams erupted.

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Peter hurled the newspaper against the wall, with his fist following close behind. He pulled up at the last second when he realized that he couldn't afford to fix any hole that he'd make in his apartment wall. Ironically, the paper landed, opened on page 9, where the story was buried. Apparently no one at the Bugle connected the death with the other two murders. But Pete recognized the picture of the man posted next to the story. It was the same man he saw yesterday. The person he chose not to follow. The story read:

Chris Lorrel, a Wall Street Executive, died yesterday in a freak accident. He tripped and fell down an escalator closed for maintenance. He tumbled down the long two story mechanical stairway all the way to the bottom breaking his neck. He was pronounced dead at the scene.

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Lisa sat in the library with stacks of newspapers dating back to the train incident. She had not only the Bugle but the Times, the Post and several smaller obscure papers. She wanted to research as much information as possible. When Chris returned, she wanted to show him that with just a little extra digging they will have their proof. She was too busy researching to read the latest Bugle end to end, but she figured if there was another murder, it would be splashed on the front page. She missed the story about Chris.

As she researched rescue after rescue, with the exception of the Bugle reports, she started to feel so ashamed that she ran from Spider-man the other day. Maybe he was after all, there to protect her from the real murderer. But she still had nagging reservations, like how did he know she would be there that day. She's rarely on that train. If he was protecting her from the murderer, how would the killer know she would be there? She was starting to spook herself again with her questions. Of course then reading the Bugle accounts just seemed to reinforce the queasiness she felt as doubt filled her mind.

She shook her head. NO! Spider-man is not a cold blooded assassin. No matter what the Bugle says, I have to think positive about this. She sat there trying to analyze her doubt. She just couldn't figure out why she had any qualms about her hero to begin with. Then she asked herself, _what would I do if I see him again?_ She didn't like her answer. It was _I don't know_.

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Spider-man had gone back to the train station several more times over the next several days without any luck. He was still reeling from the death of Chris. He was right there. If he had chosen to follow him instead of the girl, maybe Chris would still be alive today and the killer caught. The superhero spent even more time both as the wall crawler and as Peter Parker scouring the city in hopes of catching the murderer in the act. He had to find the fanatic before any more lives were lost.

In hopes of finding a needle in a haystack Peter started to hang around the vicinity within several blocks of the train station. He feared hanging around as Spider-man too much because if there were more murders, witnesses would put him in the area. _Perfect_, he thought. _In my attempt to catch a killer, I would implicate myself. _

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Since she was in the library Lisa had cried silently but hard when she finally found out what happened to Chris. When he didn't return any of her phone messages, and he was supposed to have been back already, she knew something was wrong. She pulled out all the Bugles that she had collected since their meeting and began to read through them looking for an airplane crash or car accident or anything that might explain what happened to the executive. It was not above her imagination to think that the killer got him and made it look like an accident. She found the story easily from his picture. He died just minutes after their last meeting. She sat and stared at the news unbelievingly. When her mind focused back to that day she remembered Spider-man was hiding in the shadows. _Did he decide to go after Chris when she ran? Would anyone really have seen it if Chris was yanked down the stairs by webbing?_ She didn't know how the web stuff worked. _Would the evidence have dissolved by the time anyone got to the victim's side?_ She didn't know but her doubts about the super-hero were growing exponentially now.

The library she had been researching in was close to the train station. She had picked that particular branch so that when she and Chris got together with some of the others, it would be convenient to most people. She hefted her bag of newspapers, articles and clippings onto her shoulder and dragged herself out for what she figured would be the last time. She didn't have the energy nor the belief anymore that Spider-man was innocent and wasn't going forward with her plans to prove his innocence. Carrying the heavy sack, she looked for a quick bite before heading back home.

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About a week after Chris' death, Pete slogged into a pizzeria, tired and depressed. He missed several of his classes trying to find someone, anyone from the train. He combed the area both as Peter Parker and as Spider-man. After picking up and paying for a couple of slices and a soda, he turned to look for an empty seat. That's when he saw the brunette just getting up from the table after finishing her slice. He headed in a beeline to her. He quickly put his things down on her table and said quietly, "Please, can we talk?"

She looked at him. A puzzle look crossed her face for a moment, then total panic set in. She shoved him back and screamed "NO!" and ran out the door. Pete, allowed himself to fall, because within the tanglement of chair legs, he would have looked out of place if he used his spider abilities to remain upright. Kicking the chair away, he jumped up to go after her, but a big burly fellow, who assumed the worst from Pete, blocked his path. He looked around at all the stares and said red-faced, "All I did was ask if I could sit here. She left her sack, I was just going to call after her and let her know."

The Good Samaritan stood his ground and said quietly, "Well just in case, I don't think you will mind sitting down like a good boy and eating your dinner, huh? We'll put her bag in the back and she can come back later to fetch it." He emphasized this by crossing his beefy arms across his chest. Pete stood there, thinking furiously. Enough seconds had just ticked by that he has probably already lost her. He sat down and quickly ate his dinner. He allowed just enough time so that he was allowed to leave.

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The cloaked figure blended in the shadows of the alleyway across the street from the pizza joint. Watching Peter through the steamy glass window of the storefront, it was felt that this would be a good opportunity. The photographer had been followed at a distance several times after the first traitor had tried to give away Spider-man's secret. But either the situation did not lend to his demise or another victim was found. Being the only person who gets photos of the superhero and also having been on the train for the unmasking, he posed the greatest threat to the Webslinger. That could not be allowed. So far the self proclaimed protector had only a glimpse of the young menace, but it didn't matter, his face would be revealed soon enough. The assassin just hoped Peter could be silenced before he posted pictures of the super-hero unmasked.

Waiting patiently in the dark, a screaming young woman was seen running from the restaurant. The face was recognized immediately as the one from the train. Since it would be easier to find the Bugle employee, the killer slid out from the alley and stalked the next victim.

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The next day, Jameson grabbed Peter by the sleeve when he brought up his daily batch of photos and yelled, "Why can't you get a picture of Spider-man in the act?"

Pete just looked puzzled until JJ threw the evening special edition at him. Splashed across the front page were the headlines:

**SPIDER-MAN GETS 3RD VICTIM. NOTE FOUND ON BODY.**

Peter sank into the chair in front of Jameson's desk and scanned the story. He couldn't believe it. The victim was the woman he tried to talk to last night. I should have gone after her. To hell with anyone else. It was double his fault that she died. First for just being Spider-man, then by not going after her. If he had done just that, he could have saved the woman, caught the killer as well and prevented someone else's murder in the future.

"Hey, don't get comfortable, get down to this address. Big warehouse fire. Maybe the Webhead started it to cover up yet another murder." Jameson bellowed to Parker as he handed him a piece of paper.

Pete just stared at Jameson wanting to say something, but thought better of it.

"Well? What are you sitting there for? Get going!"

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Pete jogged as close to the fire as he could get, his mind still half on the latest victim. He tried to figure out if anyone was inside and needed Spider-man's help, or if he could get away with just being Peter Parker; photographer. He didn't care about the alleged murder allegations hanging over him as Spider-man. If someone's life was in danger he would still save them. However his question was answered when he overheard a couple of the firemen saying that the warehouse was empty at the time. He crept a little closer and snapped a couple of shots when his spider sense started to go off. He looked around and didn't see anyone or anything suspicious other than a few people gathered around to watch the inferno. He turned back towards the fire and wondered if something was going to happen which caused his internal alarm to go off. Maybe the building was going to collapse on a fireman or possibly explode, or maybe the murderer was here stalking another victim. But he didn't have a clue who could be the next victim. He slowly backed towards an alley prepared to run and change quickly if he needed to.

Pete stood on the edge of the shadows, staring at the flames, waiting for something to happen. His spider sense was still telling him something was wrong, but he couldn't place it. That's when he felt the fire in his back as a knife slid between his ribs just to the right of his spine. He instinctively reached behind him crying out in agony. Then everything went black.


	5. The Gathering

When Peter finally awoke, he found himself lying in a hospital bed. Beeping and clicking machines surrounded him, monitoring his vitals and helping to make him well. There was a dull ache in his back, though he suspected it would feel much worse if not for the drugs he'd probably been given. Outside the window, the sun was orange and hanging low over the city. Dizzily, he tried to remember how he'd gotten here, but then he realized that he didn't even know if it was dawn or dusk.

He tried to sit up to find the nurse-call button, but immediately regretted it. The dull ache turned into a searing burn that shot through him and made him see stars. With a groan, he collapsed back against the pillow. With nothing to do besides lie there, he decided instead to try dredging up the last memories he had before waking up in this room. There was the burning warehouse, his spider-sense tingling, and then the pain, the stabbing pain in his back.

"You okay over there, sonny?" an unexpected voice asked, startling Peter. The voice sounded elderly, slow and unsteady. From behind a drawn curtain between the two beds, the room's other occupant was calling out. He must have heard Peter's tortured groan when he'd tried to sit up.

"Yeah," Peter replied. "I was just trying to call the nurse."

"I'll buzz her for you," said the old man. "She'll come quicker if I do it 'cause, y'know, she'll probably think I'm dyin' or somethin'." Peter laughed, only a little, because it hurt to do it. His roommate pressed the button repeatedly, not allowing their nurse to call back over the intercom. Shortly, she arrived in the room in person.

"What is it, Mr. Brown?" she asked, trying to smother her irritation.

"The boy in the next bed just woke up. Couldn't find his call button."

"Oh, Mr. Parker!" said the nurse. She came around the curtain and checked Peter's monitors as she spoke. "How are you feeling?"

"It hurts," he said lamely. He felt stupid, stating the obvious and complaining like a little kid, but it really did hurt.

"I'll see if I can get you some more pain meds," she told him. "Dr. Jackson is on the floor right now, doing rounds. I can ask him if it's okay to up your dosage."

"Dr. Carl Jackson?" asked Peter.

"Yes, that's right," said the nurse. "The paramedics who treated you on site said that you were asking for him en route to the hospital. They called him, and he met them here and performed the operation."

Peter vaguely recalled floating in and out of consciousness, staring up at the concerned face of a man in an FDNY uniform. Through the haze and pain, Peter had asked for Dr. Jackson, remembering how he'd helped him with his gunshot wound earlier this year. Some other detail was swimming through Peter's brain, but he couldn't quite grasp it.

"Was he already in to see me before I woke up?" Peter asked. "I… I should thank him. Gosh! I don't even know if it's morning or evening…."

"It's getting toward night time," the nurse told him as she was leaving. "You came in last night, and slept the whole day away. I'll call your Aunt and let her know you're awake." Peter gulped, hoping Aunt May hadn't been too shocked by the news when she'd been notified as his next of kin. It was a relief at the same time, though. At least he hadn't had to be the one to tell her, and she could actually know the truth, because it didn't involve Spider-man for a change.

"Hello, Peter?" said a male voice from the doorway.

"I'm over here, Dr. Jackson," Peter replied as the doctor entered the room. He looked down at his patient and sighed.

"We've got to stop meeting like this, Peter. Seriously."

"I'm sorry," Peter said. It was humiliating, like being scolded by Aunt May.

"Hey, I know you've got to do what you've got to do," the doctor continued. "But here's your reality check: if that blade had gone in a little closer to the spine, you might have been paralyzed. And you're damn lucky that you've still got both kidneys."

"I was just taking shots of a warehouse fire last night. Then all of a sudden, somebody attacked me. I don't even know what happened."

"The papers say it was that serial killer, the one that the Bugle says is Spider-man," Dr. Jackson said, chuckling at the impossibility. "They found another note in the alley where you went down. I just figured you were out chasing the guy. Hey, Peter, if you're trying to get another trip to Florida out of me, this isn't the way to do it."

Peter didn't laugh, but not because it wasn't funny, or would have hurt. The nagging fact that he'd been missing had finally occurred to him. Where was his costume? Nearly speechless and white as a sheet, he stammered out his terrifying question to Dr. Jackson.

"W-wait! What… what happened to… the clothes I was wearing?" Peter said pointedly.

"Relax," said the doctor. "I got the bottoms off of you before surgery. It wasn't easy. Is that stuff, like, spandex or what? Oh, and the paramedic from the ambulance got the rest of the costume. He turned it all over to me, so I'm sure he's cool. I hope you have a spare top, though, because he had to cut it off."

"Well, it already had a big stab wound in it," Pete said with bitter humor.

"Yeah…," said Carl, laughing. "Well, I've got to go finish my rounds. Keep those spirits up and get some rest, you hear me?"

Peter nodded robotically, because his mind was already racing elsewhere. Someone else knew his secret now, while some other sick person was still out killing to protect it. He tried to form a plan of action, but forced immobility and his guilt preoccupied his thoughts.

"Mr. Parker, you have some visitors," said the nurse, sticking her head in. Peter was glad to finally be distracted from thoughts of George and that girl, Lisa, whom he'd been so close to saving. "They say they're… uh… co-workers of yours. I can send them away, if you like. Visiting hours are almost over, and there are four of them. We usually only allow two, if they aren't family."

The nurse sounded almost anxious for Peter to take up her offer. No doubt she felt that four was a lot of people, and she didn't want them keeping the other patients on the floor awake. Of course, Peter wasn't really in the mood to see anyone from the Bugle, least of all Jonah, whom he expected to come barreling in, demanding pictures of Spider-man on the attack.

"Well, you can send half of them in to visit him and the other half to visit me," piped up Mr. Brown. "I'm going to sleep, anyway." Knowing what an inconvenience an irritated Mr. Brown could be, the nurse acquiesced and ushered in Peter's visitors.

Slowly, four people edged into Peter's room, occupying what space they could that didn't encroach upon Mr. Brown's curtained-off area. But, to Peter's surprise, none of them were Robbie, or Betty, or even Jonah. They were all strangers to him, or so he thought at first.

"Um… hi," said the young black man at the front of the group. "You probably don't remember us…. M-my name's Mark. Mark Greer. You… see, you saved us… on the train?"

Peter swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly becoming very dry. His first instinct was to deny, but these people had most likely seen his face. What could he say to that? All he could do was stare at them, feeling more helpless than ever. Mark swallowed just as hard as Peter had, but forced himself to continue.

"We're all here… well, not all of us… but we're here because we wanted to thank you, and… and because we're scared. All these murders… and we know they're all people from the train. See, a lot of us exchanged names and numbers after we saw… what we saw. There's a list…."

"But how did you find me?" asked Peter. A stocky, older man held up today's Bugle, with a menacing picture of Spider-man on the cover. The headline read: Photographer Peter Parker Survives Attack. The paper's owner handed it to Mark, who turned to page nine. The front-page article continued there, with a small picture of Peter in his hospital bed. Appalled by the invasion of his privacy, Peter looked at the photo, credited to a "Lance Bannon", and made a mental note to chew the guy out.

"So, we know that Spider-man isn't killing these people," added a middle-aged blonde woman.

"Thank you," Peter said. "You don't know what it means to me to hear you say that."

"A couple of us thought maybe you faked the attack on yourself," said the cynical-sounding final visitor. The blonde woman, holding a copy of the contact list they'd mentioned, stepped forward and leaned down by the bedside.

"But you've been in the hospital since last night," she said slowly. She pointed to a name on the list, another name among plenty of others that Peter couldn't put a face to. "Just this afternoon… this man was killed."

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"No!"

With a hoarse, angry yell, the reader of the Daily Bugle shoved it violently into the trash. Shame and disappointment welled up to overflowing, and a foot stamped down on the crumpled newspaper, crushing it deeper into the garbage that had preceded it. The front page had said it all. The killer hadn't even bothered to turn inside to read the rest of the article. Another note had been left with Parker, but the papers were barely mentioning the notes, now. And the Bugle was still blaming the murders on Spider-man.

"They aren't getting the message!" went the tortured wail, equal parts rage and despair. Today's death wouldn't make the paper until tomorrow, but it didn't seem to matter how many people died, or how many notes were left. The other people from the train, whether they were on that accursed list or not, still whispered to each other, loudly and carelessly. Riding the train every day had shown the killer that much.

"How could you people be so stupid and make a list?" the killer asked the air. "You're just asking to be found! And when they find you, they'll beat you and torture you, until you tell them what they want to know. Not all of you can be as strong as I am. We all can't keep secrets!" Gloved hands clutched a paper containing hastily scrawled names and phone numbers. It had been crumpled in rage and re-flattened time and again.

"I'll just have to find you first, that's all…. I'll just have to find every last one of you…!"

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At the hospital, the sky outside Peter's window was turning quickly from the deep blue of dusk into the black of night. He knew that he probably didn't have much time to talk with these people, and not just because of expiring visiting hours. But he chose to ignore the other reason, because of its extreme unpleasantness.

They'd only just started brainstorming, throwing their theories around at one another, when a man in an FDNY uniform had joined them in the room. He was young, only a little older than Peter, with sandy-colored hair, and introduced himself as Bobby. Apparently, he was the paramedic who'd gotten quite a shock upon finding the red and blue costume under Peter's street clothes. After being briefly welcomed into the "club", he'd put forth what information he had.

"The fireman who found you got a look at the guy who attacked you," Bobby had said to Peter. "The guy was running away, so all he could tell was that he was short, about 5'6" or 5'8". Other than that, he was all covered up with gloves, a hooded sweatshirt… the whole nine."

"So, you think the killer could be someone from the list?" Peter asked after Bobby's arrival, getting them all back on the subject.

"Well, everyone who's been killed was on the list," pointed out the blonde woman.

"Except for that Joe guy," said the stocky man, "but he was in the paper."

"There were four other people from the list who didn't answer or said no, when I called about coming over here," added Mark. "I guess… I guess they were still scared, maybe."

"Or had something to hide," said the cynic.

"But if someone was trying to protect my secret, why would they attack me?" asked Peter.

"Well…," Mark said thoughtfully, "maybe the killer never got a good look at you. Your name was in the paper with Joe's, but there was no picture."

"So maybe someone from the Bugle is the killer," said the cynical man, "not somebody from the list. Maybe somebody who works there just got so pissed off over what the boss is always printing about Spidey, that he gets this whacked idea in his head to "help" when Joe goes there to shoot his mouth off. That George guy went there next… and maybe that Lisa girl had an interview lined up, too. And then Pete, here, was off on assignment… if the killer worked at the paper, he'd have known where to find you."

"I guess…," said Peter, not wanting to suspect anyone from the Bugle. But, then again, he didn't know everyone who worked there.

"Well," said the blonde woman, "what if the "secret" the notes keep mentioning isn't Peter's? The killer's motives might go deeper than just protecting his identity."

"So, that way, it could be someone from the list, or not!" the cynical man replied. "If the secret were something else, and he's not protecting Spidey, it wouldn't matter to the killer if he went after Peter knowing his secret or not."

"What?" asked the stocky man.

"Yeah, I didn't follow that," added the blonde. Peter himself was barely able to follow the disorganized discourse, especially with Mr. Brown's diesel-engine snoring chiming in repeatedly. But he was still hoping that a real lead might come from all this.

"Hey!" said Mark, sounding less than meek for the very first time. "I don't think all this talking is getting us anywhere. We need to do something!"

The assembly nodded and gave affirmative grunts, agreeing for the first time.

"I was thinking that maybe the killer was finding you through the EMS reports about the train accident," said Bobby. "That is, until I heard about your list. But I can still check and see if anyone has been asking about it that shouldn't have, or if the files are missing or something."

"Good!" said Mark. "That's good! And the rest of us can follow up on the people from the list that didn't show tonight. We can see if they have alibis for the murders…."

"Whoa!" said Peter. "Hold on! This is too dangerous for you people to be doing on your own! You should… I don't know… leave the city until it's safe. Let the police handle it. Let me handle it!"

But the blonde woman was already assigning people from the list for the others to follow up. Maybe they were doing it because they felt they owed it to Peter, or maybe they were eager to be the ones catch the killer, or perhaps they just didn't want to feel helpless, at the mercy of some lunatic with a knife. Regardless of their motivations, they were all determined.

"Please don't!" Peter begged as they began to leave. "If something happens, to any of you…."

"Then that's our choice," said Mark. "We've got to do this, for you and for ourselves."

Peter was torn, not wanting to condone their actions, but also unable to stop them.

"Joe's old Super," Peter heard himself saying. "Leonard Rosenbaum was his name, I found out. He was at the Bugle looking for Joe the day of his murder. He's the one that found the body. He was in the same day George was killed, too…. I just… I guess I thought you should know…."

"Thanks," said Mark. "And don't worry, okay? You're secret's safe with us." He and Bobby were the last ones to leave.

After they were gone, Peter wondered why he'd told Mark about Joe's Super. He hadn't meant to encourage them. Without his "blessing", maybe they would have given up searching, stopped putting themselves in danger. But he would have felt wrong somehow, not giving them at least a small token of thanks.

"Um… hey, kid," came the elderly voice from beyond the curtain. "All those people trampin' outta here woke me up."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Brown," Peter apologized sheepishly.

"Oh, I didn't mean to give you no grief about that," continued Mr. Brown. "But… uh… I heard what that doctor said, 'bout your "costume"… and you chasin' down some guy. Then, I heard that black kid talkin' about keepin' your secret…."

_Oh great,_ thought Peter, _now someone else knows!_

"I just wanted to tell you not to be ashamed."

"Ashamed?" asked Peter.

"Yeah… I mean… there's nothing wrong with bein' gay. You're here, you're queer, I'm used to it. The guy who cuts my hair, he's gay. Big guy, too…. So, come out of the closet, already, kid. This is New York City, for cryin' out loud!"

Mr. Brown was snoring loudly again only seconds later. And while his misconception had amused Peter at first, it began to dawn on him that Mr. Brown may have given him a solution to the current problem. If Peter revealed his identity as Spider-man to the world, the killer would have no reason to continue. But beyond that immediate end, the ramifications were too numerous to comprehend, tonight at least. Exhausted, Peter slipped into a sleep haunted by guilt and indecision.


	6. The Investigation Begins

The killer moved among the train passengers largely being ignored and going unnoticed.

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Pete was wheeled back into his room by a muscle-bound but friendly orderly. "Mr. Parker, you surprised Lexi this morning. She said you're doing very well with your physical therapy."

"Uh, thanks. By the way, where's Mr. Brown?" asked Peter as he looked upon the empty bed.

"He went on to a long term care facility. You'll probably have a new roommate shortly."

As they passed the vacated bed heading towards his own, a gruff looking gentleman stood up from the chair parked next to it. But before he could say anything, the orderly spoke up, "Mr. Parker will be with your shortly Detective. But first I want to get him settled back into bed. He just had a strenuous therapy session."

Maneuvering the wheelchair next to the bed he said, "Ready, Mr. Parker?"

He nodded, "By the way, you can call me Pete."

"Ok, Pete. On the count of three, you lift with your legs and I'll support you under your arms."

Pete grunted in pain as he was half lifted back onto his bed. He might be a fast healer, but he had still been seriously injured.

"I'll let the nurse know you are back from session so she can give you your meds. See you tomorrow, Mr. P… uh, Pete," the orderly said as he left.

The injured man turned to his visitor, "Detective?"

"Detective Shore," the man said as he held out his hand to Peter. "I'm working the Spider-man murders case."

Pete cringed at the way he said that. "You think Spider-man did this to me?"

"No, we're almost sure it isn't the webhead doing any of the murders. That's just how we refer to the case now. What can you tell me of the attack?"

"Absolutely nothing. I was taking pictures of the fire for the Bugle when I got stabbed in the back. I saw nothing. But I heard that a fireman saw the attacker."

"We already interviewed him. Are you sure you didn't see, or hear anything? Did he wear cologne? Have bad breath or body odor? Were the clothes old or baggy? Did he grunt or whisper anything?"

"Sorry Detective. Nothing. All I remember is the searing pain and wondered why I was being attacked."

The detective handed Peter a card, "If you think of anything, give me a call, ok?" Then left.

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Jameson grabbed the phone at Betty's insistence. A hoarse whisper, obviously disguised, blared bluntly, "You moron! You've got it all wrong. You're not getting the message. Spider-man is too busy protecting others to shield himself. I need to do that for him. Cease your attacks on him or you're next."

The caller hung up. J. Jonah Jameson just stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the phone receiver still stuck in his hand. For once, he was speechless.

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Seven people sat around a well used dinning room table in a small but adequate New York apartment. Mark Greer was chairing the meeting. Nancy, the blond, and one of the four that visited Peter in the hospital the evening before found another person who was on the train but not on the list. Madison was a middle-aged African-American woman who actually helped move the unconscious young hero further back into the train to safety. But nauseated by what happened next, she quickly left after Doc Ock cold-cocked the weakened Spider-man and snatched him away to horrors unknown.

Another hospital visitor was there, the still cynical Alfred. Fred was able to get two more from the list to come to the meeting. Hugh was the big fellow who was the first to challenge Doc Ock to try to take Spider-man from the train and Mary really wasn't involved other than a quick glimpse. But just being here at the meeting trying to help the man who saved all their lives made her feel more a part of the 'family'.

Bobby rounded out the attendees. He felt out of place amongst all these people. Although he was initiated into 'the club' because he found out Spider-man's identity, his life wasn't saved by the superhero. He wasn't sent through the trauma the others were. And his life most probably wasn't threatened by the self anointed executioner.

Mary who was sitting next to Bobby started idle chat before the meeting got started. She was curious about how Bobby knew the secret.

"So, how did you find out? Did anyone else see?"

"Not that I know of." Bobby replied. "When we first checked the injury, I think my partner saw some red or blue, but that was through the jacket. He probably thought the same thing I did, that it was just the lining. He was driving when I started the IV and heart monitor." Bobby snorted a small smile thinking back on that ambulance ride. "I remember grabbing the kid's shirt on either side of the buttons, and as I yanked open his top I was looking away to the heart patches that I was planning to put on him. One of the buttons popped me on the face and I thought it was a good thing I was looking away because I might have gotten hit in the eye. When I looked back at my patient, there was this red and blue costume with a black spider sitting in the middle of it. I must have uttered something because my partner called back asking if everything was alright. I gave him some excuse about the button hitting me as I just stared at Peter. All I could think of was how young he was. At first, I thought it must be a joke or something. Maybe he was planning on going to a costume party. But none of my ideas made sense. Then the realization hit me that this guy had to be the real deal, so I looked up to make sure Stew, my partner, was paying attention to driving. I quickly cut off Spidey's top and stuffed it in my pocket. When we got to the hospital, I was pushed out of the way when Dr. Jackson took control. Knowing that I got only part of the outfit off, I snuck behind the curtain to try to get the rest of it. I found Dr. Jackson doing what I had planned to do, that's why he seemed to have taken over so abruptly. He knows. When he saw I had the top, realizing I now knew, he had me help him. Actually it was kinda funny. Here were two men, struggling and yanking at a spandex suit just about glued onto the patient." Bobby chuckled at the thought and shook his head, "Anyways, I just came up for a visit last night since I was on another run here. That's when I ran into everyone else in the hallway. The rest is history. What about you? Were you on the train?"

"Yeah, but I really don't know why I'm here. I didn't get a very good look at the guy. I wouldn't have been able to pick him out of a lineup. Heck, I still don't really know what he looks like." Then with an impish grin added, "Maybe I will visit him in the hospital later."

At that moment, the last expected member, Teddy, exploded onto the scene. He was the forth of the hospital entourage. He gripped a paper in his hands, "Did you see this?" he bellowed and slammed it down on the table for all to see.

**SPIDERMAN ORDERS HITMAN TO DO DIRTYWORK**

**EDITOR-IN-CHIEF'S LIFE THREATENED**

Mark said it all, "Oh crap, now what?"

He quickly scanned the article then relayed the news to the others, "Seems someone called that boob Jameson and told him that Spider-man wasn't doing the killings, he was. And if Jameson continued to smear Spider-man, he would be the next victim. Jameson now has a 24 hour bodyguard."

Alfred, true to form, asked, "Do you think that's true? That Spider-man hired someone to do this?"

Not a word was said, but the man was glared down from the rest of the people into a small puddle on the chair. _Bad idea_, he thought.

"Man, we have to do SOMETHING to catch this nutcase," Hugh said.

"That's what we're here for. To try to become amateur sleuths and find this guy." Mark assured.

"I can probably be of some help." Bobby volunteered. "I have access to the hospital records. I can see if anything was tampered with. Not to mention, I date a cop. She works at the 53rd, which is the precinct that is investigating these crimes."

Several of the people nodded, they liked the idea. Mark asked, "Can you get the names of the people treated for injuries that day on the train? From what I have gathered, it would mostly, if not all, be those on the first car."

"I'll try. Maybe the killer himself was treated at the hospital that day."

"Also, what can you give us from the cops that is not public knowledge or in the papers? Does your girlfriend know you know?"

"No, she doesn't. I'm not sure I can get anything, but all I can do is try. They are pretty hush-hush on this. It's a major crime spree with a big name attached to it."

Fred, ever impatient pushed, "So, what are **we** going do about this? Sit around until this fireman does something?"

"I'm a paramedic," Bobby said coarsely.

"Whatever. So, my question is, what are we going to do about this?" he repeated.

"Alfred, that's what we are here for. To brainstorm and figure out our next plan of action."

The room came abuzz with ideas and suggestions flying about. Everyone had their own agenda that they thought would be the best way to go.

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Pete received a visitor that lifted his spirits. MJ had been there the whole first day when he did not wake up but left to take an exhausted Aunt May home. Just the sight of her, the sun pouring in on her red hair was enough to make him feel completely better. At least until he tried to move. Then he was reminded how hurt he was.

"I can't stay as long today Pete, I have a dress rehearsal this afternoon for the play tonight. But you've got me all morning." Looking beyond the curtain to make sure no other ears were listening, she asked, "So, was that a story that you needed to make up because you were, you-know-who?"

Pete shook his head. "No, I really was just taking pix of a fire for Jameson. I was totally caught off guard. I'm still not completely sure why I was attacked. I mean, I was on the train and all, but **_as_** Spider-man, not a witness. If the killer was silencing the witnesses then why me? And if it is one of the people who saw Spidey's identity doing the killing, won't they know that he's me? I'm totally baffled."

"Could your attack be something totally different?"

"The cops think it was the Spider-man killer." He looked down, obviously upset. "That's what they are calling this…..the Spider-man murders. I guess they have sufficient evidence to lump me in with the rest."

After a moment's pause, Peter got a worried look on his face, "You take extra care of yourself, MJ. I don't know how the murderer is connecting people to Spider-man. But if he went after me, and I wasn't on the train…I mean not on the train as Peter, then who knows who else the killer will go after.

She leaned over and kissed him, "Don't worry Tiger, I will stay away from dark alleys."

Looking at Peter, she asked, "There's something else too, isn't there?"

Slowly Pete nodded hesitating a moment.

The moment seemed like an eternity, but she knew better than to push too hard too soon. Her patience was rewarded.

"I'm thinking that if I come out of the closet, so to speak," Pete began, "I will end the reason why the killer is doing what he's doing."

Mary Jane stood there, surprised, but not surprised at the same time. She gave it some thought then asked, "So, what about all the ramifications you talk about? That the enemies of Spider-man would go after the ones he loves? Not to mention, where would you live that you would be safe from your enemies and the media? Along those same lines, how will those close to you, like Aunt May and me, how will we handle all the media? I know why you are heading in that line of thought, but truthfully Peter, I don't think you can."

"Well, I could just stop being Spider-man."

"I think if you tell the world who you were, you would definitely have to stop being Spider-man. But even that wouldn't end it. Because there will always be someone who will come looking for you asking for your help. Or someone looking for you to get revenge. And what about all those people who Spider-man would have saved if he was still in business? I can keep going on and on. I have a plethora of excuses in my head, but I think you know them all already."

"The only option left would be for Spider-man to die."

"You're not seriously thinking that, are you Peter?!!"

"No, but, the killings have to stop, MJ!" Peter cried in anguish.

"I know," she said softly as she caressed his cheek. "I know. We'll think of something."

She looked at her watch. "Oh, I gotta go. I'll try to be back later. Please don't do anything rash. We'll find a solution to this. I promise."

As she was walking out the door, a young man, about Pete's age with short dark hair was wheeled in and placed in the next bed.

"Hi" he said cheerfully. "My name's Pete. Pete Barrow."

"Hey, I'm Peter Parker. What are you here for?"

"I broke my leg skiing."

"Skiing? Aren't you are little far from the slopes here?"

"Well, actually I was buying a new pair and trying them out on the fake slope that the store has. The ski stuck in a tear of the slope material. I went down one way and the leg went the other."

"Ow! That's gotta hurt. Probably gonna ruin your ski season, huh?"

The new Pete nodded, then asked, "What are you in here for?"

Pete hesitated. He really didn't want to talk about the stabbing, especially since it was related to Spider-man. But he knew it would come out eventually. So he answered, "I was stabbed. In the back."

"That was you? The photographer who was taking pictures of that warehouse fire? Spider-man attacked you?"

"No! Spider-man did not attack me," Peter said vehemently. "The police think the nut going around killing people in the name of Spider-man did it. But it wasn't Spider-man!"

"Hey, I'm cool. I didn't know."

"Um, sorry. I didn't mean to jump all over you. It's just that I kinda know Spider-man and I get tired of him getting dissed all the time."

Pete, realizing that he was going to need the facilities soon and also knowing it was going to take a while for him to hobble those 5 feet from bed to bathroom, slowly started to get out of bed. "Man, this sucks," he said to his roommate.

"Yeah, we're both in the same boat on this one, huh?"

"Pete grinned as he thought. _Yeah, two infirmed Petes needing help to get to the john._

The other Pete was flicking through the TV channels when he heard a voice call his name, "Peter?"

"Yeah? That's me."

"Good."

A person in a white coat walked up to the bed-ridden young man and pulled a syringe out of the pocket. After inserting the needle into Peter's IV line and emptying the contents, the lab coated person left without so much as a sound. Before he realized that anything was wrong, the young man's eyes rolled to the back of his head and the heart monitor alarm sounded.

The roommate exited the restroom to a torrent of people and a cacophony of noise similar to what he had seen on TV versions of hospital emergencies. Although no one was screaming CODE BLUE, CODE BLUE, a crash cart with epinephrine, a defibrillator, back board and other emergency paraphernalia was brought in and being used to save the young man in the other bed. Pete slowly limped back to his bed and watched the commotion. He was quiet as he watched their frenzied, dedicated attempt to resuscitate the young man he had been speaking to just moments ago.

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A knock came to the door as Leonard was sitting on his thread-bare puke-green sofa, watching the game. He had on worn gray slacks held up by suspenders over an age-yellowed undershirt. A chewed stogie stuck in the corner of his mouth.

"Now what?" he mumbled to himself. "Probably another clogged toilet from those assholes who flush diapers down it."

"Alright already, I'm coming, I'm coming," he yelled.

His slippers slapped the ground as he approached the door and peered through the peephole. Seeing two well dressed gentlemen he unbolted three locks and cracked open the door enough to stick his head through.

"Yeah?" he growled.

Alfred, standing behind, poked Mark in the back and whispered, "Gawd, this guy looks like the stereotypical Hollywood super, _gack_ "

"Mr. Rosenberg?" Mark asked as he furtively elbowed Fred.

"Baum!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Baum. Rosen**baum." **Leo corrected.

"Mr. Leonard Rosen**baum**?" Mark asked again.

"Yeah. So who are you?"

"Mr. Rosen**baum,** we would like to ask you a few questions about JoeSchlechenger." Mark said politely and professionally.

"You cops?"

"No, we're investigators. Do we look like cops to you?" Alfred growled.

"No you don't. But what do you need to know that I already didn't tell the cops?" Leo retorted back.

"We want to know what you know about Joe. What can you tell us?"

"Well I'm not gonna stand here in the hallway discussing it. Come in and sit. Beer?" Leo offered gruffly.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Alfred said, "No thanks, we don't want, uh, I mean, we don't need to stay that long."

Mark started off the interrogation, "How well did you know Mr. Schlechenger?"

With a loud snuffle, Leo exclaimed, "He was a good friend of mine. It's a shame what Spider-man did to him."

"Rumor has it, it's not Spider-man," Mark replied.

"Whatever. When they catch the guy, I'm gonna sue the bastard for taking away my rent. My bread and butter. Uh, my best friend."

Alfred already getting pissed raised his voice, "but you kicked him out for non-payment of rent. He was homeless when he was murdered."

"That? Oh that was only to light a fire under Joe's ass. I loved the guy like a brother. I really wasn't kicking him out."

Mark pushing his good luck asked, "Can we see his apartment?"

"Sorry, someone's in there already. Besides, you need a search warrant."

"How did you get to find the body first?" grilled Alfred.

"I was worried about him. Hey, who are you investigating this for, anyway?" Leo said suspiciously.

"I'm sorry, that's classified. Where were you when Joe was murdered?" Mark asked trying to get back on track.

"As I told the police, I was fixing someone's toilet. Keeps flushing diapers down it. Now if you don't mind, I gotta get back to work." Leo said abruptly and ushered the two out the door.

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Pete sat dazed on his bed as he watched the body of his short-term roommate wheeled out of the room.

"Mr. Parker."

"**Mr. Parker**!"

Pete shook his head, and broke out of his trance, "Yeah?" He saw that Detective Shore was standing over him.

"What can you tell me about what just happened?"

Looking at the empty bed, the young man answered, "I was in the bathroom. When I came out there were several doctors and nurses working on that guy. He was fine just a few minutes earlier." Looking up at the detective he added, "His first name was Peter, did you know that?"

"Yeah." Then looking sharply at Peter asked, "Why, do you think there's a connection?"

"I'm the only living victim of…" he hesitated, swallowed hard, then spit out, "…the Spider-man murders. And we are both named Peter. Yeah, I think there's a connection."

"You're a smart young man. But a lousy reporter. You were within inches of the killer twice and you didn't notice a thing."

Peter answered sourly, "I'm a photographer, not a reporter."

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The next day, the same table filled up with members of the Spider-man Anti-Defamation League as they were calling themselves. Two new faces appeared, Joan and Robert, a married couple that Mark got hold of from her name on the list. But missing this evening were Mary and Teddy.

Mark started off, "We have a suspect."

"Really? That was fast," stated Nancy. "Who?"

"It's that Super that Pete gave us the name of when we called on him in the hospital. Fred and I paid him a visit. He gave us some cock-n-bull story about him being a close friend and was worried about Joe."

"Yeah, we didn't believe him from the start." Fred jumped in before Mark could finish. "He said that he knew Joe was a bit despondent and worried about losing his home. Well if I recall, that Joe fella wasn't just worried about losing his home, the Bugle said he was actually homeless. Some friend that Leo fella was, huh? Kicked Joe right out."

"Should we tell the police?" Madison asked.

"Tell them what? We got nothing but suspicion. I think we should break in and search the place." Fred proclaimed.

"Whoa, wait a minute. I think that is a bit too drastic, don't you think? Aside from breaking the law, it's very dangerous, especially if he really is the murderer. He won't think twice about killing any of us. In fact we would probably be making it easier for him just showing up at his doorstep. I think maybe tailing him might be the better option." Mark countered.

The noise level rose a decibel as all voices started to speak at once. Everyone had their opinion on what they should do about the Super.

"Well, actually, I think we have another suspect too." Bobby announced loudly.

When the voices died down and all eyes were on him he continued, "My girlfriend's tongue got a little loosened last night, after we celebrated her first promotion with a lot of champagne. It's not much, but she said that a pin, the kind they give to railroad personnel after 15 years of service, was found at Lisa's murder. I didn't see it, but the public doesn't know about it. Now we know that the engineer saw Pete's face. And he definitely looked like he could have worked for the railroad for 15 yrs. I think he could be a suspect. I don't remember where the conductor was, though. I don't know if he saw Pete's face. I think we need to explore that a bit more, dontcha think?"

Once again the volume rose several octaves as everyone voiced their opinion at once. Until Mark's phone rang. Taking his cell phone out at the same time shushing the cacophony, he answered.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" he asked, then mouthed to everyone there, _'It's Peter'_.

"Say what?! Repeat what you just said, Pete. Oh. God. Yeah, Yeah, Ok, I will let everyone know. Thanks and you take care of yourself, please."

"What?" "What did he say?" "What's wrong?" "Did something happen?" "Tell us what happened."

The questions flew at Mark. But he quickly quieted everyone. "There was an attempt on Pete's life earlier today. He had a roommate also named Peter. Apparently that guy was given an overdose of sodium, table salt, in his IV and he died of cardiac arrest. Our Pete wasn't in his bed at the time, but since it is now classified a murder and Pete is the only live witness to the murderer, the cops are thinking it was a botched attempt to get to him. They put a guard outside his door."

There were several gasps, when Alfred spoke up. "We were talking to Leo this afternoon. That blows him away as a suspect."

Then looking around the table he said suspiciously, "It could have been any one of us, except Mark and me."

"Now wait just a minute, Fred, Mark didn't say what time the murder took place, so how would you know if the Super was a suspect or not. Or you, for that matter? You're always ready to point the finger at someone. And you're the right size too. You're not very tall."

Hugh then stepped in, "Well that leaves me out, no one would mistake me for being five foot anything."

Madison spoke up, "Well, who said it has to be just one person?"


	7. Desperation

"If you're late again, you're going to be fired," the supervisor said uncaringly. The recipient of this warning nodded dutifully, then headed off to work. The threat was not idle. Recently, a coworker that hadn't shown up for a few days had been summarily dismissed. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the still-employed worker's thoughts were far from the job at hand.

_It wasn't him…! How could I have been so stupid…? Parker's still alive, and I'll never get another chance that good! Damn it! This is taking too long…. Any one of them could have told plenty of others by now, and those others could talk to others and more and more until everybody knows! God damn it, I have to do more…! They all have to die._

"Excuse me?" the irate voice said again. An elderly lady had obviously been trying to get noticed for some time, and was quickly losing patience. Digressive thoughts quickly snapped back to reality. With a smile, the killer asked what it was that the lady needed.

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Peter Parker stretched, thankful to be free from the hospital bed at last. The sun was up, but it wouldn't be visible from his window until the afternoon. No offense to any of the staff, but Peter was glad he would be gone before then. At least Aunt May had brought in a few things to make the sterile room feel more like home. He was gathering up those pictures and knickknacks when he was surprised to see Mark walk in.

"Hey, Peter…," Mark began awkwardly. He didn't finish, and instead stared down at the floor.

"Hey, Mark!" Peter said with a smile. Jokingly, he added, "No one else wanted to come and see me off?"

"Well, that's kinda why I'm here…," Mark started before trailing off again. Peter could tell that his joke hadn't gone over well; quite the opposite, in fact. "See, the group's breaking up, Peter. We'd been meeting regularly, but some of them… well, a lot of them just didn't trust each other. All these murders… it brings out the best and the worst in people. And we were hitting so many dead ends. Bobby said nobody had gotten into the EMS records of Doc Ock's train attack. We interviewed Rosenbaum, but that attempt on you happened at the same time. Then Marion suggested that there could be more than one killer. She was new to the group, and she gave all of us that "look", you know what I mean? Like, "it could be you". A lot of people left the last meeting saying that they weren't coming back."

"So how can I help?" Peter asked. In an instant, he wished he hadn't. It had been a reflexive response, before his brain could remind him that he didn't want to condone Mark's group taking matters into their own hands.

"I was… I was hoping you could come to the meeting tonight," Mark said. Peter felt torn between guilt and gratitude. "It would mean a lot to everyone. Maybe some people might even change their minds about coming back if they knew you'd be there."

Whether or not he agreed with what they'd decided to do, Peter could tell that Mark needed very much to be a part of something like this. It was probably helping him deal with the trauma of living through that attack on the train. And it was equally likely that there were more people in the group who were getting the same benefit from it. Peter took a deep breath as he considered, or at least pretended to.

"Okay, I'll come," he said, as if his conscience hadn't already made the choice for him.

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Later that evening, the killer paced and glanced repeatedly at the phone.

_I've never done anything like this before…. What if their lines are tapped? What if they don't agree to meet me somewhere? Maybe… maybe I could just get their addresses from their numbers… but how will I know if they're home? I could watch them, but I've got to go to work. And if I don't go to work, how will I find the others? I'll just… I'll just concentrate on the list for now…. There's still so many. They all have to die._

A sweaty-palmed hand reached and then recoiled. It wavered in the air uncertainly. Finally, like a cobra striking, it seized the phone.

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Nancy Whitman glumly watched the clock on the wall as she sat on the phone with her little sister, Deb. The girl was a freshman at ESU, and although they had made plans to have lunch together tomorrow, Deb was still talking Nancy's ear off about everything from classes to boys. Mercifully, the call-waiting signal beeped.

"Deb?" Nancy interrupted. "I've got to go. I'm getting another call." With the barest of goodbyes from Deb, Nancy clicked over to the other line. "Hello?"

"Hi… Nancy? This is-" The caller selected another name from the list.

"Oh," replied Nancy, "you sound different on the phone." The caller remained silent. "Well, if you're calling to try to talk me into coming to the meeting, you can forget it."

"Meeting?" asked the person on the other end.

"At Mark's, tonight," an annoyed Nancy blurted out. "I don't think I could get there from here in twenty minutes, anyway…." It suddenly struck her as odd that the person on the other end of the phone had seemed surprised when she'd mentioned the meeting. Fear knotted in her chest. "Hello…? Who is this, really?"

There was a click, and the line went dead.

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As Mark Greer stood on the stoop outside his apartment building, he was completely unaware of the urgent messages from Nancy that awaited him on his answering machine. He fumbled with his keys, not wanting to set down the paper sack containing the snacks he'd bought for tonight. Slowly, he did become aware of someone climbing the steps behind him.

"Can I get that for you?" asked a friendly voice.

Despite the stranger's tone, Mark found himself on edge. It was late, the sky was dark, and it was almost time for the meeting. Although the person didn't seem threatening, the face was not one that Mark immediately recognized. There were other people passing by on the sidewalk, and that fact helped him to remain calm.

"No thanks, I got it," he said, readjusting his grip on the sack. He pocketed his keys, and was preparing to dart quickly through the unlocked door.

"You're Mark Greer, aren't you?" asked the stranger. It was then that Mark noticed the crumpled list in the stranger's hand. "I called Nancy, and she told me about the meeting tonight…. I'm a friend of Lisa's, the girl who died."

"Oh," said Mark, kicking himself for thinking the worst. He was disarmed by the sadness expressed in the mentioning of Lisa. "I'm sorry…."

The two of them walked together into the building. Mark went to check his mail before making for the stairs. He stayed nervously silent, unsure of how to talk to someone whose friend had just recently died. As he closed the tiny box on the wall, one of the many questions that he had thought up to ask Lisa's friend began to truly bother him.

"So… how did you get her list?" Mark tried to ask casually, though he was gradually feeling less so. The question's recipient fidgeted uncertainly before answering.

"She gave it to me," was the reply, "for safe keeping." The answer was weak, and they both knew it.

_Why did I let a stranger into my building?_ Mark wondered feverishly. _I've been meeting so many new people lately…. Damn it, I'm so stupid._ Of "fight" or "flight", Mark was the sort of person who would always choose the latter, no matter who the opponent. The question was whether to try to make it up to his apartment or back to the street. Panicking, he dropped his bag and chose the wrong option.

He was tackled as he tried running up the stairs. The fall winded him, and his face hit each stair as he was dragged by his legs back down to the floor. He rolled onto his back just in time to take a knife to the chest. He screamed as he felt another stab. Yet another hit his arms as he threw them up defensively. Then the knife was raised again, but this time it didn't fall.

"What's all that racket down there?" someone called from above. There was the sound of a shutting door and footsteps descending the stairs. How many people were coming and how far away they were was difficult to tell. The face of Mark's attacker disappeared under a quickly-raised sweatshirt hood. The killer risked one more stab at Mark's neck, then turned and fled.

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Peter Parker was enjoying a casual walk through the city at night. He was a little over a block from Mark's, and the meeting was five or ten minutes away from starting. He couldn't remember the last time that, in this persona, he wasn't rushing to be somewhere at a certain time. As Spider-man, he would often have little to do but roam the city while waiting for something to happen or someone to need him. But roaming as Spider-man could never take the form of a quiet stroll such as this.

Suddenly, his spider-sense blared, and he watched as a hooded figure ran out of a building up ahead. It seemed to play out in slow motion as the figure darted as fast as possible across the street then dove into a parked car. Peter sprinted, but by the time he reached the building, the car was squealing out of its space and heading down the road.

His body filled with dread and anger. There was no doubt in his mind that he had just seen the serial killer. He was ready to take to the air in pursuit, heedless of giving away his identity, when something broke through his fury and made him glance inside the open doorway. His eyes grew wide as he spied Mark on the floor with blood pooling around him.

"Help!" Peter screamed hoarsely. People on the street gawked at him. Tears of frustration blurred his vision as he ran and knelt at Mark's side. The bleeding man was barely moving and barely conscious. Peter screamed to anyone who could hear him. "Somebody please help! Call 911!"

Peter screamed again and again. He knew the killer was getting farther away with each passing second, but he couldn't leave Mark. He was Spider-man, a super-hero, but he didn't know what else to do but hold Mark's hand and cry for help. Peter was startled as the hand he held broke free. He felt it reach inside his jacket, grasping at something red within. It was Spider-man's mask. Peter clenched his teeth. Shaking with rage, he wiped the tears off his face and donned the mask.

"I'll get him," said Spider-man. Mark replied with a rasping word that sounded like "go", then slipped into unconsciousness.

Spider-man's spider-sense told him that people were cautiously making their way up the steps to the building, but it also told him that he'd be able to slip unnoticed into the shadows of the stairwell. They'd be too distracted by the sight of Mark, and that was good, because then he might get help.

Looking up through the winding staircase, Spider-man saw a skylight in the roof. He snagged it with a webline and launched himself upward, flying through the thin space between the flights of stairs like thread through a needle's eye. On the roof, glass shattered as he punched through into open air.

He rolled in midair, removing his pants and shoes. As he began to freefall, he tore off his jacket and shirt, grabbing his costume's boots and gloves from inner pockets, but letting the rest fall to the roof below. He finished dressing in the free-flying time between swings as he took off in the direction he'd last seen the killer's car headed. It didn't take long to spot the car far up ahead, speeding fast and weaving in and out of traffic. It also didn't take long for Spider-man's back to complain about the exertion.

Driven by wrath and undeterred by pain, Spider-man slowly closed the distance between himself and the car. It was a beat-up old four-door from the seventies or eighties, and it reminded him of Uncle Ben's car. The memory made him more determined than ever to not let the killer escape. But, just as he was preparing to make a leap for his quarry, the killer's car took a sharp turn and Spider-man had to correct his swing. His back felt like it was on fire.

And the pain was affecting his aim. Weblines were hitting wrong, sending him swinging at the wrong angles. Swinging from his right arm was making him see stars, and he feared blacking out. Doing so even for a second could prove fatal. He had to think of something else before he was forced to stop the pursuit.

Instead of swinging again, he let go of his last webline and managed to alight on top of an overhanging streetlight. Aiming carefully, he shot web from both arms and completely ensnared the car's bumper. He braced himself to stop the car, but was warned too late by his spider-sense of the true outcome. The stress broke the bumper free of the car, and Spider-man was sent falling backward onto the street. For a moment, he did black out.

When the moment was gone, he stood immediately and found that the car was gone too. People on the street were clustered around him, staring. Most backed away fearfully when he rose. Sirens could be heard in the distance, but they came from behind him, in the vicinity of Mark's building. Ahead lay only the lights of the city.

"Where did the car go?" Spider-man screamed at the onlookers. None spoke, too frightened by the web-slinger's outburst. He hefted the bumper that lay in the road and brought it crashing down into a newspaper vending machine with a guttural yell. "Where is that God-damned car?"

Those who hadn't already fled in terror did so. Spider-man watched them go, then looked with amazement at the destruction he'd wrought. The broken machine's newspapers were strewn about, fluttering their corners in the evening breeze. The bumper had round impressions in it from his fingers because he'd grabbed it so hard. He also noticed something else it had. Under the webbing, he could just make out a New York license plate. Under his mask, he was too tired to smile.

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Alicia Martinez guided her police cruiser swiftly but carefully through traffic, not wanting to turn on the siren and announce her approach to her quarry. Her partner, Arthur O'Keefe, bit his lip and watched her as she drove. He feared that if he watched the road, he might become ill. He also wanted to talk to Alicia about what they were doing, but he didn't want to distract her while she was driving.

Arthur had always been content occupying his niche in the NYPD. He went in, did his job, and then went home to his wife and kids. The routine had served him well for plenty of years as he plodded slowly toward retirement. In contrast, Alicia was young and fiercely ambitious. Being a Latin woman on the Force put her at an immediate disadvantage in the eyes of many of her co-workers. But she always proved them wrong. Sometimes, Arthur knew, she went dangerously out of her way to do it.

Things had started innocently enough. Alicia's boyfriend, Bobby, had called her up. He was an FDNY paramedic, and he knew how to get through to her while she was on patrol. But it was highly unusual for him to call her at work, made even odder by his unorthodox request. He'd asked her to run a license plate through the computer.

She was still reeling from surprise when word came in on another radio band that the "Spider-man killer" had struck again. It didn't take Alicia more than a second to realize why Bobby was asking. Swift interrogation, as only a significant other can conduct, quickly yielded the whole story from Bobby. Spider-man himself had somehow gotten in touch with Bobby through the "Spider-man Anti-defamation League" he had been meeting. The super-hero had torn off the bumper of the killer's car during a botched pursuit and gotten the plate along with it.

True to form, Alicia ran the plate, hung up on Bobby, and then steered the cruiser in the direction of the address she'd gotten. She and Arthur made the trip in silence, each knowing that she had omitted a crucial step. Finally, they came to a quiet halt outside an apartment building.

"Martinez, we are calling for backup now!" Arthur demanded through clenched teeth. She out-ranked him after her latest promotion, but he hoped that his insubordination would make it even more obvious to her that she was taking a tremendous risk by breaking procedure.

"Fine," she agreed. "You call them… I'm going in."

"Hey," he argued, "we don't even know if he's here or not. We should wait."

"Oh, he's here," she said. She exited the car, gesturing at the bumper-less sedan parked on the street near them. In another second, she was climbing the building's steps to the door.

"Oh, crap!" said Arthur. He was radioing Dispatch as he got out to follow Alicia.

They buzzed the manager and waited anxiously. It took agonizing seconds for him to arrive, let them in, and then point them to the stairwell. As the two officers began climbing the steps to their destination on the fifth floor, they both cautiously drew their sidearms. Seeing this, the manager headed straight back from where he'd come.

"So, it was the train engineer, huh?" Arthur asked as they ascended. He knew the case, and the list of suspects. Alicia nodded with a smile.

"Reading over my shoulder again, Artie?" she asked. Then she shook her head in disappointment. "We should have known…! He was on the train when Octavius attacked it, and, if the rumors are true, he saw Spider-man's face. But more importantly, he probably saw all the other victims' faces. The PATH pin that the investigators found at the third murder should have clinched it, but he had some flimsy alibi for one of the other ones, and the profiler said he didn't fit. Now we have his car at the scene of another attack!"

On the fifth floor landing, they peaked warily into the hallway to find it deserted. The carpet was stained in places, burnt in others. Two of the lights were out and a third was broken. Someone's music was thumping loudly from behind one of the doors. Arthur and Alicia crept quietly along the wall until they reached apartment 5D.

"Mr. O'Shea?" Alicia asked, knocking loudly. She and her partner had taken up positions safely on either side of the doorway. "Mr. O'Shea…? Open up! This is the police!"

Before Arthur could stop her, Alicia kicked the door in. The first thing to assault them was a rancorous odor permeating the residence. They'd caught a hint of it in the hall, but dismissed it due to the building's poor condition. Suppressing the urge to vomit, Alicia went first into the darkened apartment, leading with her gun. She motioned for Arthur to check the kitchen that adjoined the entry-hall as she proceeded down it toward the living-room.

"Mr. O'Shea?" she called again.

The gun's safety was off, and it was taking all her will to steady her hand. Her training was at war with her primal instincts, which were screaming at her to run away. She surveyed the living-room from an angle that left the hall to the bedroom hidden from her, but also kept her hidden from anyone who might be there.

She swung quickly around to face the bedroom, finding an empty hall and two closed doors. One door was partway down and the other lay at the hall's far end. The bathroom and bedroom respectively, she surmised. She heard Arthur's footsteps behind her, coming into the living room from the kitchen entrance that adjoined it.

"All clear," he whispered. "The kitchen is a mess, and the fridge was left open, accounting for the smell, I'll bet you."

_Maybe,_ thought Alicia.

She indicated to Arthur that she'd take the far door, while he checks out the nearer. She slunk along the hall to the bedroom, and then slowly reached out for the doorknob. She winced, her hand jerking back, as she heard Arthur open the bathroom door far too loudly. She shot an angry glance behind her, frowning at his apologetic face.

Turning back to her own door, she gripped the knob and turned it slowly, hoping no one who might be behind the door would notice. Once it was unlatched, she flung it wide, listening in case she caught anyone hiding behind it, while scanning the rest of the room with her eyes and gun.

She couldn't hold in a gasp as she saw the engineer seated across the room, facing away from her. He couldn't have missed hearing the sound of her entry, but he just sat impassively, in front of a small desk. Alicia aimed her gun at the back of his head and moved closer. With her left hand, she reached out and spun the chair around.

"No!" she screamed, and Arthur came running.

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In his apartment, Peter Parker stared out the window at the moon with tired, red eyes. Minutes turned to hours. He couldn't bear looking at the phone, remembering what Aunt May had always said about a watched pot. It was well past midnight before he got the call he'd been waiting for. The phone's base fell off the table from the frenzy with which the handset was gripped.

"Hello, Bobby?" he said before the other party could speak.

"Yeah, Pete, it's me," said the sad voice on the line.

"What took you so long?" Peter asked as calmly as he could, which wasn't very. "Wouldn't your girlfriend to run the plate for me?"

"It's not that…," Bobby began guiltily, "…I… I told her what it was, and where you got it." He could sense Peter growing angrier from his heavy breathing. "Face it, Peter. This is work for the cops, okay? Like they say on the job, "you're too emotionally involved". And you are. I couldn't get that plate run for you and then let you go and take on this wacko by yourself. You just got out of the hospital, man."

"I could've helped!" Peter yelled. "If any cops got hurt taking this guy down, it's on you, Bobby!" He regretted it as soon as he said it. Bobby didn't deserve that, and no amount of anxiety or fatigue could excuse it. "Hey, wait… I'm sorry…."

"Yeah," Bobby said, still a bit shaken. "Well… they didn't get the killer. The car belonged to the train engineer, the one who saw your face. The police found the car outside his apartment, but when they went in…. He was already dead, Peter. It looked like he had been for a couple of days. His bosses said he'd been let go for missing work. Cold bastards never told anybody…. I'm sorry, too, I guess."

Bobby hung up without saying goodbye. Peter just dropped the phone, and then sat on his bed with his face in his hands.

It wasn't over.

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_It's over!_ the killer thought_. I failed. I tried so hard, but… Damn it! Parker lived, and now the papers say Greer is going to make it. Greer saw my face! It's only a matter of time before they find me. I can't go in to work today. Maybe… maybe I can find one last chance… to do some good._

The misery, the feeling of failure, was like a hot towel that couldn't be taken off. Sweat poured down the killer's face. Hands were clenched and unclenched as the gravity of the situation set in. It was all over. And no one was safe… not even Spider-man. The bathroom mirror cracked and broke as it was punched. The killer looked down at bloodied fingers.

"What was that scream?" asked someone through the door.

"Nothing," replied the bathroom's occupant, not even remembering having screamed.

The killer quickly exited the gas-station bathroom, and then spent the rest of the morning driving aimlessly through the city, considering all the viable options. By noon, options once thought unviable were being considered. There were the two boys… there were always the two boys.

Their mother knew about the killings. She also knew that her boys were on the train when Doctor Octopus had attacked all those months ago. But necessities of life outweighed the need for caution. Taking the train was the only way she could get her kids from school, then to their Grandmother's, and then get to work at her second-shift job on time. The children were never considered a threat by the killer, because they were only children, so they'd ridden every weekday without incident.

_No… they're just kids… I can't…._

But an idea began to form. If the opportunity wasn't taken quickly, it would be lost. Everything would be lost soon enough…. Desperation pushed whatever warped morality that stood between the killer and the children aside. A turn of the wheel, and the car was headed in the direction of the school.


	8. Tightening the noose

After driving around aimlessly, passing by the school several times, the killer ended up in the train yard. During the day, it was a busy bustling place, with engines and cars coming in for maintenance and repairs. The self-proclaimed protector found this place a safe haven. Trains always brought forth a comfortable and relaxing feeling, especially the big old Iron Horse. The steam locomotive came out only on special occasions. Here amid the massive metal machinery, thoughts became clearer, answers to problems appeared and ideologies came into focus.

_'Killing Greer would buy me time, and save my own identity. I still have the hospital badge and white coat. I can do it, I know I can. I have to for Spider-man's sake.' _

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Peter walked into the uncomfortably familiar building. He had left the hospital what had seemed years ago, but was in fact only days.

"Hello, Mr. Parker. Are you here for a checkup already?" a nurse called, smiling from behind her desk.

"No. I'm visiting a friend. Can you tell me what room Mark Greer is in?"

After studying the computer screen for a moment, she looked up and said, "ICU. That's upstairs in 3 East."

As she leaned over the desk to point in the direction of the elevators, Peter snorted softly, "Thanks. I unfortunately know where they are."

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A white lab-coated figure stood down the hall in the shadows. Looking busy. The door to Mark Greer's room was guarded as expected, but unfortunately the watchdog seemed to know everyone on the floor. The assassin kept busy, constantly watching for a break in the situation, fearing that none would come that morning. If the current sentinel stayed on duty, there would be no chance at silencing the lone visual witness. The only hope to get to Greer begore he talked would be if the guard needed a break.

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As Pete exited the elevators, his senses were assaulted by the noise. There was not a lot of talking but every patient had a heart monitor beeping and a ventilator whooshing. He saw a uniformed police officer sitting outside one of the doorways and Peter deduced that this must be where Mark was. He had a cop outside his own room after Pete Barrow was murdered. Recognizing the guard as one of the ones who kept vigil over him he called, "Hi, Grant."

"Peter. It's good to see you up and about. You here for a checkup?" the cop asked.

"Nope. I just came to visit Mark. He's a friend of mine. Am I allowed?"

"Well, only relatives are supposed to go in, but …." Grant looks around sheepishly, "Go on in."

When Pete entered the room Mark's eyes were closed. He had a breathing tube down his throat and IV's out of both arms. There was more tubing from his neck and chest which Peter recognized from recent experience as being drains.

"Hey, Mark. It's Peter. I came by to see how you were." He paused not knowing what else to say to the unconscious man.

Mark's eyes fluttered open and focused on Peter, weakly raising his right hand. He couldn't speak.

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Trying to maintain the illusion of being busy, the white-coated killer walked towards the stairs, planning on climbing up or down for a flight or two, then back to the third floor. Halfway into the stairwell, the cop's voice filtered over, "Peter. It's good to see you up and about. You here for a checkup?"

Quickly turning around, the protector looked back down the hall and saw the back of a young man approaching the guard.

_'Parker!'_

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The frail hand Peter was holding squeezed in recognition. With a tube down his throat, there could be no dialog. But Peter sensed that there was something that Mark needed to communicate.

"Is it about the killer? Did you see the killer?" Peter asked not masking the concern in his voice.

Mark nodded almost undetectably. Peter grasped Mark's hand with both of his, as if willing the information to osmose from one human to the other.

"I'm going to ask just 'yes' and 'no' questions. Can you do that?"

Feeling his strength already fading fast, Mark shook his head 'no' and squeezed Peter's hand. He made a feeble motion with his right hand.

"You want to write? Is that it?"

Mark nodded.

Peter looked around the room and found a pencil but no paper. He called out to the cop, "Grant, can I borrow your notepad?" knowing that they all carried one.

Grant leaned into the room and tossed the small notepad at Pete.

"Thanks"

He quickly opened to a blank page, placed the pencil in Mark's hand and held the pad for him.

Several times Mark dropped the writing instrument, too weak to hold it. But with resolve, he concentrated every ounce of energy into writing what he needed to say. Without the strength to hold up his arm, he couldn't see the pad to write on. It needed to be held down where his arm rested. So, without guidance other than his memory, he scribbled two words. Exhausted, he fell back into the deep black void.

"Mark? Mark?" But Peter realized that was all he was going to get from his friend tonight. He looked down at the paper, his brow knotted in concentration and confusion. He couldn't read the writing. He stood there, grasping the small notepad tightly with both hands, staring at the penciled scribble.

His eyes widened as he deciphered the script. He ripped the page from the pad, tossing the pad to the guard as he ran out the door.

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Returning back into the stairwell, a muted scream "PARKER!" muffled throughout the open area as the brick wall received a beating from a fist.

Peering back through the door, the killer got just a glimpse of the young man rushing out. "DAMMIT! Greer talked. Now I've got to get to Parker first before he hits the paper. How? How do I get to Parker before he brings the story to the paper?"

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Hello, Mrs. Watkins?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Watkins, this is St Gabriel's School. Your oldest boy Tommy did not show up for his class after recess today."

"What do you mean, he didn't show up? Was he in any classes this morning? Is Bobby still there?" a very worried Stacy Watkins asked.

"Yes. Little Bobby's ok, just worried. And Tommy's teachers from the first two classes stated he was in class. Did you send someone to pick him up, or is there any reason why he would have skipped out on school?"

"Oh my God!" wailed Stacy. "Oh no, no no!"

"Mrs. Watkins, what's wrong, do you know something?"

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Madison had her nose buried in the newspaper largely ignoring the normal day-to-day commotion that occurs on a crowded commuter train. But the energy level seemed higher this afternoon and the train was sitting at the station longer than normal. She looked up and was surprised to see several police officers canvassing other riders up and down the aisle. She leaned over to her unknown seatmate and asked, "What's going on?"

"There seems to be a lost little boy."

Just as the stranger finished the answer a uniformed woman approached and handed a picture of a young boy to each seat occupant, "Have either of you seen this kid today?"

The stranger shook her head, but Madison's eyes just froze on the photo. She knew this face. She looked up at the cop who read her face easily.

"You did see him today?"

Madison answered, "No, not today, but I know him. He was on the train that day with Spider-man. You know, all those passengers are now being murdered." The last of the sentence sticking in the black woman's throat.

"Please come with me, Ma'am," the policewoman politely ordered. Madison obeyed.

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Snatching the kid was easier than originally thought. When Parker didn't show up at the newspaper, another plan came to mind. The photographer would definitely hold off with the story if a kid's life was at stake. So reluctantly, a visit to the school was deemed necessary.

However worry creased the face of the kidnapper who looked over at the unmoving boy, slumped against the passenger door. It was just a shove. It wasn't that hard. Just enough to quiet the child.

Non-plussed, the killer chose a payphone uptown to call the photographer. Eyes glared in anger at the telephone book, a message can't be left for all the Peter Parkers, Pete Parkers and P. Parkers listed. Pulling out the crumpled list the killer chose a name from there and dialed that number instead.

The phone booth was the recipient of a head banging from frustration when the voice mail picked up. The message was left: "Tell Peter Parker not to bring the story to the newspapers or police if the kid is to live. Tell him to go to the railyard tonight, ALONE."

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The phone seemed to be ringing with a more frantic tone than usual. But Alfred shrugged it off. How can an inanimate object tell if the sender of the call was frantic or not? But heedless of what his brain said, he answered it with greater urgency as if he knew he needed to.

"Hello?"

"Fred? It's Madison. We need to get a meeting together right now. Mark usually put them together didn't he? Can you do it? Peter must be there too. He HAS to be!" she almost screamed into the phone.

"Calm down, Maddi. What are you talking about, what's going on?" Alfred asked realizing something bad had happened.

"The boy. One of the boys from that day. He's gone. I think the killer's got him."

"Oh My Lord. Ok,ok….calm down, can you be at my place by 7?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'll be there."

Alfred held the disconnected phone in his shaking hand. _'A boy?__ The killer has actually gone after a little boy?'_

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The room was buzzing at an obscene decibel level. For such a short notice, Alfred was able to find just about everyone for the meeting. It was the first time in days that they all seemed to be back as part of the group. There were a few missing people, but just one person that they were all waiting for, the most important person.

Alfred stood at his breakfast bar overlooking the crowd in his living room. There were too many people to sit around his small table. In fact there were too many for all to have a seat. He banged his meat mallet on the countertop and quieted everyone down.

"I know Peter's not here yet. I'm not sure if he's coming."

A cacophony arose at that, and he banged the make-shift gavel again. "I left multiple messages on his answering machine. Spider-man doesn't carry a pager ya know!" he said getting angry. He wished Mark were here. "Why don't we get started and if Peter shows up we can update him. Maddi, would you tell everyone what you found out?"

Madison did not like the nickname Alfred had christened her, but felt it wasn't the time nor place to correct him. She quickly stated, "On the ride home on the train today, the cops started handing out flyers of this boy," and she held up the picture of the 10 yr old. She could tell on the faces that most of them recognized the kid. "The cops said he has disappeared. When they found out that I knew of him, they brought me to the station and asked me to give them every detail I could think of."

As Peter was racing up the stairs to Alfred's apartment he nearly ran over Nancy who was carrying her phone's answering machine.

"Oh thank God you're here, Peter. You have to listen to this," Nancy blurted between breaths.

As they both plowed inside the apartment, Alfred called "Peter! Thank God you're here. We've been waiting."

Nancy didn't let anyone get another word in, "You all have to listen to this and she played her tape.

After listening to the brief communication, Fred asked, "Why were you called?"

Everyone looked puzzled and she just shrugged her shoulders.

"That's not important right now. What is, is that I've got to go now." And Peter left in a flash.

"Wait" came a chorus, but Pete did not heed. He was out the door before anyone could stop him.

Nancy looked puzzled, "When we ran into each other outside he said he had something very important to share with all of us. What could it have been?"

After sitting in silence at the shock, Teddy started to speak. "You know, we have all been thinking that the killer was on the train with us. We even thought it was the engineer until we found him dead. Suppose it's another train employee?"

Nancy added eagerly, "It makes sense. And the trainyard has lots of places to hide a kid. Look at all the empty cars just sitting around, rusted to the tracks. But what about Peter? He's fresh out of the hospital himself and not going in a Spider-man."

Teddy looked at the rest of the group, "I don't know about you, but I'm going down there. He might need our help."

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As Peter neared the darkened trainyard, he passed by the recently repaired barricade that almost became his grave marker. A chill wormed up his spine at the thought. He alit atop an adjacent building in the shadows looking down at the railroad corpses. The place was perfect for hiding.

In this darkness, he wasn't afraid of anyone seeing him as Peter Parker acting like Spider-man. He'll be on the ground soon enough. Staying in the gloom, he landed effortlessly amid the engines and cars. No time was specified on the tape, so he figured he could look around before calling out for the killer.

His spider-sense was tingling, but he already knew danger was present. He couldn't pick up anymore detail from it. There were several dozen railcars and locomotives sitting in the yard, too many to check them all out. So he opted to start with what looked like the oldest and least likely to have been moved or to be moved in the near future, hoping the killer would have chosen one of those.

Peter clung to the shadows, sliding along some of the cars, dipping under others. The oldest train turned out to be the Old Iron Horse, which was connected to a coal car, a passenger car and a caboose. When he came upon it, he carefully climbed up the steep steps and peered inside. He knew old engines like this ran on coal and wood. He crept over to the cold firebox and turned the crank on the door. He grimaced as it squealed its objection to being opened. He thought it was a good place to hide a young boy, but apparently the killer didn't think so.

Stealthily he climbed over the open-topped coal car. There didn't seem to be anyplace to hide a child there, so he continued to the passenger car. Sliding off onto the landing, he peered inside. At first glance it was empty, but he noticed that with the placement of all the seats, a kid could easily be stuffed and hidden under any of them. Grabbing the handle, it turned without a sound and he carefully opened the door. Skimming along the floor, he checked under the seats. The old-fashioned car had open-aired baggage racks above the seats so there was no place to hide in them. However at the other end was what looked like a toilet. Noiselessly he came upon the _peu__ de coin _and unlatched the door.

The smell overwhelmed him. It seemed that the tank had not been emptied for quite some time. But again there was no boy.

He creaked out the back door grimacing once again at the noise, and entered the caboose. It looked to be used as a storage facility. He sighed at all the human size boxes that needed to be examined. Carefully and systematically he went about to check every box. He didn't want to call out in case the killer was within ear-shot. He reached the first box, marked TRAVEL REFRIGERATOR. He simply tore a hole in the top of the cardboard and looked in. It was a frigde too small to hold the 10-yr-old. The next three boxes were also cardboard that he quickly tore open and checked. But when he came to a wooden crate he studied it for a moment. It would be faster to punch a fist size hole in the side, but he didn't want to hurt the kid if he was in there. Using his spider-strength, he grabbed the edge of the lid and pried it open.

Nothing.

He went through three more cardboard boxes before coming across one last wooden crate, the size of a coffin. Without hesitating, he grabbed the lid and tore it open. His eyes widened.

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Bobby, Alfred, Teddy, Madison, Nancy and Mary were the only members from the meeting that opted to follow Peter to the trainyard. Ironically, they took the train to the last stop, then when they thought no one was looking, broke through the fence and into the yard.

"Gee, this is an awfully big place," Mary whispered loudly.

"Shhhh"

After admonishing Mary, Alfred signaled the others to keep quiet, then in a barely audible murmur, "We have no idea where Peter is, or the killer. But this place is so big, I think we should split up into twos."

"I think it would be better if each woman paired with a man," Nancy suggested.

Alfred steamed a little but then realized it was the best. Two women could easily succumb to a killer. "Ok. You and Bobby head to the farthest corner over there," he said pointing to the large maintenance building where the locomotives are brought inside for work.

"Teddy, why don't you and Mary, hit the older trains over there." He pointed to Old Iron Horse.

"Maddie, stick with me."

Madison was just about to let Alfred have a piece of her mind but decided that helping Peter find the killer was much more important that picking a fight with a hothead over a nickname.

The six split up.

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The killer was walking in circles talking to the kid. "You know why I have to do this, don't you? He protects us all. If the identity of Spider-man were revealed then his enemies would be able to find him and even if he survived their attacks, they would hound him the rest of his life. We need him here."

Periodically the self-proclaimed protector glanced over at the stilled boy.

"Can't you see? Crime will become rampant if we lose him. Don't you remember how bad it got when he disappeared for a while just before that damned train incident?"

Sweat trickled down the temple of the killer.

"How am I going to handle Parker? He's too wise to let me get close now," the killer stated fingering the small pistol sitting in the right pocket. _'who'da thought a train engineer would have a gun?'_

Waving the gun, the diatribe continued, "You know your brother, he could talk too. I can see it now. A bully comes along one day and he says he's a personal friend of Spider-man, gave him back his mask and everything. Can't you see that happening? What about you? You get old enough to want to impress a girl, you need money, so you decide to sell his identity to the highest bidder. That's what that Joe fella tried to do. Extort money. Well, I showed him."

The lament remained unanswered.


	9. Out of Time

When Peter had torn the lid from the coffin-like crate, his eyes had widened with anger at countless smaller boxes, stacked inside for efficient storage… another dead-end in his search. His heart was pumping and he drew breath loudly. Too loudly, he thought. He had to resist the urge to smash the crate's lid right there. The frustration was almost overpowering. He put down the lid and clutched his head with both hands.

_Get a grip,_ he told himself. _Your back is still killing you, and the thought of that missing kid is making you crazy. Just remember to follow the old Spidey-sense. If it's not going off, that's telling you almost as much as if it was._

He'd been Spider-man for a couple of years now, but was still mystified by the ability he called his "spider-sense". He knew enough, though, to know that his anxiety was hampering his using it, and he sorely needed to calm down.

The sound of footsteps outside the caboose set his nerves on edge again in a second. Through the grime-covered windows, he could make out a stocky figure, followed by a slimmer one, skulking around the yard. Heedless, Peter crashed through the widow and grabbed the larger figure in a tight bear-hug. Teddy cried out in pain.

"No…," Peter breathed, recognizing his quarry. Mary stared at the two men with fright. Peter dropped the gasping man onto the ground. "No!" he hissed. "What are you doing here? Get out! Get out of here now!"

"But we're just…," Mary started. She looked with frustration to Teddy. He didn't look like he was in any condition to make a hasty retreat after suffering for Peter's mistake. It was then she realized that she didn't know what they were doing here. Some madness akin to the killer's had gripped them, misleading them into thinking that they had the power to help a hero. It was a madness that sent them into the night, searching for a way to take their lives back from a faceless murderer.

She knelt next to Teddy on the ground. Watching Peter sprint away, she wondered if it wasn't already too late for that.

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The sound of shattering glass followed by a cry of pain made Bobby and Nancy jump. Bobby felt paralyzed, well aware that someone was hurt, but too unsure of the circumstance. Nancy just shivered and huddled close to him. Still, they couldn't help but be a little relieved for their own safety, as the noise had come from some distance away.

Bobby stared at the door through which they'd entered the maintenance building. They'd shut it behind them, and now it served as a barrier between them and the commotion outside. Though the intent to help had brought them here, neither found themselves willing to traverse that barrier now.

"I'm calling the cops," Nancy whispered finally. She began digging around in her purse for her cell phone.

"Parker!" a gravelly voice screamed from somewhere else inside the building. "Come out, you damned coward, or this kid is gonna die!" Nancy dropped the purse.

Quickly, Bobby put a hand over her mouth as gently as he could, while she began whimpering with uncontrolled terror.

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"What the hell was that?" Alfred asked Madison as they moved cautiously in the direction of the sound of the broken glass.

"I don't want to know," she said. "I just don't want to know."

Running footsteps approached them at a superhuman pace. They turned their heads, trying to find the source. Madison saw the figure sprinting toward them first, barely having enough time to alert Alfred. They were just poised to attack when they saw that it was Peter.

"No, not more of you!" he lamented upon seeing them. "I nearly killed one of you back there! This isn't a game; you need to get out of here!"

"I know it's not a friggin' game!" hissed Alfred. "We… we were just trying to help, okay? Maddie and I checked all over that side of the yard," he said, gesturing vaguely behind him. "The killer's got to be over here somewhere."

"You're lucky you're not dead!" Peter said grimly. "You're just damned lucky, that's all." He was about to say more when he heard his name on the wind. It was close but muffled, and he turned in the direction of the maintenance building.

"Holy shit," said Alfred, turning white. "Bobby and Nancy went in there."

"Get the other two… and anyone else you brought… and go! Now!" Peter tore off toward the building after issuing this final command. Madison spied Teddy and Mary further away, by an ancient locomotive.

"So, what do we do now, Maddie?" Alfred asked.

"Let's get them," she said, pointing at the pair in the distance. "And it's "Madison", by the way." She shook her head and laughed off her nervousness. "It really pisses me off when you shorten it, you know."

"I know," he admitted, smiling. "I was wondering when you'd get around to calling me on it…. So are we gettin' outta here, then?" Madison looked at him.

"Like hell we are," she replied defiantly.

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Peter walked cautiously through the building, trying to pick up the slightest sign of anything with all the senses he had available. Numerous train engines lay disemboweled in the sprawling building, and Peter moved as silently as he could through the parts and tools strewn about.

"Parker!" came the shout again. It was probably less than a minute since the first shout had brought him running here, but it felt like a lifetime. And hearing it again startled him just as much as before. It was a rare occurrence to have his true name screamed in unabashed anger.

Peter swallowed hard as he peered around the last engine into a wide-open section beyond. The expansive area was lit only by the moon and the light from a few watch-lights in the yard, streaming in through high, narrow windows. A hooded figure stood inches from a boy slumped in an office-chair. The boy was facing away from where Peter stood, but the figure tending him scanned the perimeter relentlessly. Peter watched with dismay for several more seconds, noting that the figure's pistol never veered far enough from the little boy's head.

"I'm here," Peter called out finally. He stepped into view with his hands raised non-threateningly. He tried to stay calm, swallowing a tight ball of hate and revulsion. He instead focused on the faint buzz of his spider-sense, waiting for any spike that would indicate the killer was about to fire.

"I was starting to think you chickened out," the killer laughed mirthlessly. The voice sounded strange to Peter, but he was too far away to tell why. That would soon change. "Get over here! Closer, dammit!"

The killer stabbed the gun threateningly toward the child as the demand was made, and Peter stealthily breathed a sigh of relief. His spider-sense hadn't wavered a bit, revealing the bluff. The killer obviously had no intention of shooting the boy. Still, Peter did as he was told in the hopes of apprehending this sick individual peacefully.

"Why?" Peter asked as he moved forward. "Why did you do it?"

"Why?" the killer screeched mockingly. "I… I killed all those people… and you still don't know why?"

Though the voice was ravaged by years of smoking, Peter was now close enough to tell what was wrong. He could see it now, too. The hood of the sweatshirt had come back a little as the killer's head lifted to stare into Peter's eyes. They grew wide to take in what he saw. The face was that of a middle-aged woman, her features twisted into a mask of guilt and rage.

"I did it for him!" she cried. There were tears on her face, and the hand with the gun was shaking. "I did it all to protect Spider-man! He made this city safe! It was shit before he came… robberies, rapes, murders… all day, every day! You couldn't walk on the street at night! But… but then he came, and we were safe. And this is the thanks he gets? These people… they were going to sell him out! For money, for fame… they were going to destroy this city for their own greed! I couldn't let them do it. I couldn't let them take him away… I couldn't let them take him away from me…."

"All the people who saw Spider-man's face," Peter said, suppressing nauseous waves of his own guilt, "you were killing them… but you never saw his face, did you?"

"No," the woman whimpered. "I was in the next car back… but I heard them! As soon as the Fire Department evacuated the train, they were all talking and exchanging phone numbers! It was sick! They just wouldn't shut up, you know? They just wouldn't shut up…."

"But why me?" Peter asked, trying to buy time to think. He could be on top of her in seconds, but the gun was so close to the boy that he feared it going off. "I wasn't even on the train."

"Liar!" she screamed back. "That article about Joe said you were!" Peter inwardly cursed his inability to keep his own lies straight. "That's what started all of this! That frigging newspaper and that frigging bum! After that, all I wanted was to get you, Parker! You're the worst of them all! You're like Spider-man's god-damned stalker… always taking his picture! What the hell are you after? Just leave him alone! Screw you and your damned newspaper! It was you I wanted when I got that black guy at the paper! I was after you when that dumb little bitch ran out of the pizza parlor into a dark alley where I could cut her up. I found that stupid list they made in her jacket… idiots! I thought I finally had you when I started that warehouse fire… I had you, you little shit! And then some poor innocent had to die, because I got the wrong hospital bed!"

"They're all innocent," Peter whispered, fighting back his own tears.

"No! No one is a threat to him but the people who saw his face! And out of them, no one is a bigger threat than YOU!"

With that, Peter's spider-sense flared as the killer brought her gun to bear. Reflexively, he did what he would normally do as Spider-man, webbing her gun-arm while simultaneously webbing her legs to the spot. The webs covered her from torso to feet, holding her upright in a cocoon-like mass. She struggled against her immobility until the reality of what had happened caught up to her. She looked at Peter's face and suddenly knew that what she saw was the face of Spider-man.

"Noooooo!" she cried. Her anguished sobs echoed in the massive building. Peter looked at her with horrified pity. Whatever was left of her sanity was gone, shattered by the realization that she had been trying to kill the same person that she wanted so badly to protect. She looked older to Peter now than when he'd first seen her. Another decade or two, perhaps, and she might have born a resemblance to Aunt May. The comparison made him shudder.

Immediately, his next thoughts were to the boy. The child had remained still throughout the entire encounter, probably from fright. Peter gently laid a hand on his shoulder, giving a squeeze of reassurance. The lifeless body fell awkwardly onto the cold, concrete floor.

Peter screamed a primal, guttural sound, borne of shock and fury and utter helplessness. Still screaming, he grabbed the now-empty chair and held it aloft, ready to bring it down on the skull of the weeping murderer.

"Peter, don't!" cried Bobby. Peter looked around, watching as Bobby and the others moved toward him from the surrounding shadows. Nancy was trying to dial "911" shakily on her cell. Mary held Teddy up as he limped beside her. Madison and Alfred held hands as they emerged, one looking to Peter, the other to the child on the ground.

With a final yell, Peter hurled the chair through one of the upper windows and sank to his knees. He cradled the boy's body as he cried, rocking back and forth. His tears fell onto a bloodstained shirt that had a small hole ripped through the center.

"It was one of the conductors…," Alfred whispered to himself as he got closer to her. But the blubbering thing in the mass of webs barely looked like a person anymore.

"I knew that she wasn't going to shoot," Peter said with a quavering voice. "I just didn't know that she already…." He couldn't finish speaking. He just buried his face in the boy's hair and let his tears flow freely.

The survivors of the train clustered around Peter, kneeling with him and shielding him from the sight of the killer. Bobby took the boy from Peter's arms, and Nancy moved in to hold him like he had been holding the child. Teddy mumbled forgiveness while still leaning on Mary, who bore his weight without complaint. Madison put a hand on Peter's shoulder, and Alfred held his own head in his hands. They all stayed until the sirens came wailing in the distance, and Peter had to go.

And it was in that intervening time that they finally gave Spider-man the help he needed most… with sympathetic eyes, arms to hold him, hands to clasp… and quiet words of comfort and love.

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The sun was not quite up, but J. Jonah Jameson was already at work. Robbie had ordered a "stop-press" and was on his way up with the details. Jonah was on his second cigar by the time he saw the editor approaching.

"Did you hear that they caught the "Spider-man killer" last night, Jonah?" Joe Robertson asked as he walked into the publisher's office.

"Of course!" Jameson bellowed. "It was all over the late news shows! But I don't trust those hacks. What's the story, Robbie?" He perked up his ears and put down his cigar. Robbie swallowed hard and continued.

"Turns out it was some woman named Martha Roark," he told him. "She was 58… worked as a train conductor for 35 years. She'd been diagnosed a long time ago as paranoid and delusional. She was on meds for it, but the police figure that she went off them about the same time that Doc Ock attacked the train, and then she went downhill from there…. They aren't releasing a name, but they're saying that her last victim was a just a 10-year-old kid. It makes me sick to think about it, Jonah. I've got a son of my own."

"Yeah," said Jameson blankly.

"Someone's writing up the story for the morning edition, but how do you want to play the Spider-man angle?" Robbie waited anxiously for Jameson's response. His stoic superior considered the question for some time.

"Play it down," was the reply.

"Down?"

"You heard me," Jonah said with frustration. "Play it down! Some nut goes on a killing spree because he thinks aliens told him to, we're not gonna go writing an article about Martians, are we?"

"No, sir," Robbie said gratefully. The smile faded when he remembered what other news he had to deliver. "Oh… and one more thing…. There're some people down in the lobby. Now that the killer's in jail, they want to sell us Spider-man's description." Robbie looked to his boss with uncertainty. Jameson puffed his cigar in silence.

"Send 'em home, Robbie," he said. He turned his chair to face the window. "Send 'em all home…."

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"I still have no idea what it says," Mark rasped, handing his hastily scrawled note back to Peter. He could speak again, but not as well as before. "I don't even remember writing it." That made sense to Peter. Mark's mind had been swimming in painkillers at the time. No one else had been able to make it out, either. It might be something that Mark could laugh about in the future… some day, but not yet.

"I guess it doesn't matter anymore," Peter said solemnly.

"Hey," said Mark, "you better not still be beating yourself up about all this. Even the Bugle isn't pinning this on Spider-man…. You did the best you could."

"Thanks, Mark…," Peter said. It wasn't the first time Mark had told him that. Peter wondered how many more times he'd have to hear it before he believed it.

A little later, he was stepping out of the hospital and making his way down the street. It had been days since the killer had been caught, and he hadn't visited Mark Greer on each of them, but he tried.

Other than these visits, Peter was doing his best to put it all behind him. But fate has a way of sundering such plans, and bringing old pain back to light, if only for a moment. He glanced at the Bugle's headline as it lay on a street-vendor's stand:

**SPIDER-MAN KILLER DIES PROTECTING SECRET**

Peter read as the paper told of Martha Roark's last hours, beaten to death by some of her fellow inmates. Onlookers interviewed by the guards after the fact reported that the assailants were demanding Spider-man's description, though Martha took the beating without saying a word. They'd only assumed that she had it, anyway.

"Hey," the vendor broke in, "this ain't a library, kid."

"Sure," Peter mumbled absently. He laid the last of his pocket change down on the counter and tucked the Bugle under his arm.

The very next trashcan he passed by, he stuffed the paper in and kept walking.

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END


End file.
